


Of Whoresons and Nobles

by DragonReine



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, M/M, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Romance, Slow Build, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-12
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2017-11-07 14:54:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 45
Words: 160,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/432369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonReine/pseuds/DragonReine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love is no more than another tool in an assassin's repertoire, a charade to trick and deceive and murder, but even a Crow such as he was defenceless when faced with the real thing. Zevran-centric PoV, M!Cousland/Zevran</p><p>Originally posted at FFN, which can be read here: <a href="http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6031831/1/Of_Whoresons_and_Nobles">[link]</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _  
> **Disclaimer: Bioware owns all, I earn nothing.**  
> _  
>  _ **WARNING:**_ _This story has_ _**TWO MEN FALLING IN LOVE WITH EACH OTHER**_ _ **AND**_ _ **EXPRESSING SEMI-HEALTHY DESIRE FOR EACH OTHER'S BODIES**_ _ **.**_ _ **If you don't like homoerotic romance PLEASE BACK OFF!**_ _If that kind of thing makes you go start praying at the porcelain gods in a hurry,_ _ **YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED**_ _. Please exit quietly using the "Back" button, thank you. Please note that if you decide to continue, we do not supply brain bleach, so bring your bleach brand of choice before your eyes start drifting further. Thank you for your cooperation, and have a nice day._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Acknowledgement:** _Many thanks to my grammar fairy/editor,_ _ **Scarylady1**_ _. Your advice and patience are much appreciated._

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 1_

* * *

The first impression he had of the Warden was that the Warden was a _large_ man.

Of course, he _was_ almost always smaller than the average human male by virtue of his race, but the Warden was a walking behemoth even by human standards.

He remembered that Loghain's lackey (one Arl Howe, if he remembered correctly) had mentioned the Warden's unusual height when describing his mark to him. But hearing about it and actually _seeing_ it were two entirely different things, especially when the Warden possessed a muscular width in his shoulders and chest that was entirely in proportion to his height.

Watching said behemoth stride purposefully after the "bait", his steps light-footed despite the heavy armour and oversized greatsword, Zevran was almost grateful for the fact that the trap was... well, full of traps.

Men like the Warden were precisely the kind of opponent he was trained to _not_ attack outright. They were almost always guaranteed to be stronger, faster, and possess much greater skill in combat than he. Such men, the Crows had taught him, were best dispatched with poisons or a quiet, surprise slip of the blade; preferably with both. Any direct confrontation without careful preparation would prove to be suicidal.

Just as well. He was looking for suicide anyway.

So, with a cocky smile he waited until the Warden was right where he wanted, and then waved his hand in a signal. Out came his men from hiding, and down came the dead tree. The Warden glanced up, seeing the falling log of rotten wood, and with a display of surprisingly quick reflexes he leapt away, dodging the tree mere moments before it crushed him.

"The Grey Warden dies here!" he shouted, drawing his blades. Already he was burning with his usual lust for death... only it was his own death that he sought, and somehow it made the heat so much more enjoyable.

Cold, cold eyes gazed out from beneath the great helm as the Warden gave a battle cry and faced his opponents. The fight began, and he witnessed the Grey Warden in action for the very first time.

Out of combat, the Warden was a giant. In combat, the Warden was a monster, a raging demon from the Fade itself. Inhumanly strong, he wielded the massive sword in his hand as if it was only a fraction of what it appeared to weigh. With fluid, sure movements, and vicious ruthlessness, he struck the travellers down one by one, sundering weapons and shattering armour with powerful swings and precise strikes. The Warden was...

...supremely powerful...

...terrifyingly dangerous...

..and infinitely _exciting._

The sight made his heart race, and sent his blood pumping through his veins in a hot, heady pulse. He suddenly very much wished that he could find a violent death at the hands of this man, and at the same time he desired death of an entirely different kind.

The Warden carved his way through the travellers, barking out orders between strokes of his sword. With an ease that spoke of trained teamwork, his companions fanned out around him. The blond man (the other Grey Warden, he remembered) held a shield up and ready, fending off flanking attacks to the Warden with bone-shattering bashes of his shield and threatening taunts. A pretty red-headed thing darted around the battlefield, her voice lifted in a song of bravery and valour as she nimbly uncovered his carefully-laid traps and disarmed them, occasionally stopping to pick off the archers with her own arrows.

A man screamed. He turned in time to see one of his travellers go down under a giant spider, its fangs flashing and ripping into the man's flesh. The spider glanced up at him between the man's gurgling cries, and he had a moment's glimpse of a wild cunning that was too intent, too /human/ within the clusters of eyes before the spider reared up on its hind legs and spat a ball of webbing at him.

He cursed as he leapt aside, the sticky silk landing with a _splat_ on the spot where he had been moments before. He scrambled to his feet, already heading straight for the Warden, who was fending off the last of his travellers. His eyes were fixed on the glimpse of uncovered nape beneath the bottom edge of the Warden's helm. Just a little closer...

"Oh no, you don't!"

The yell, and his prickling instincts, made him duck down in reflex. Just in time, too; he felt the brief brush of air as the edge of a shield sliced just inches above his head.

Caught off-guard, only natural dexterity and sheer luck allowed him to turn and catch the sword coming down at him by whipping his blades up and crossing them, blocking the blow just before it could reach him. He disengaged with a twist and swept down; by the time the blond Warden recovered his balance he was up again with a fistful of soil.

The blond yelped as sand and dirt flew into his face and, while the human tried to scrub it off, a light-booted foot came up and gave him a swift kick in the knee. Seeing the blond go down, blinded and distracted by pain, he turned around, looking for the Warden...

...only to find a pile of hacked-down bodies. He stared at the bloody corpses the Warden had left behind, before he raised his eyes and found himself looking straight at an arrow point. The pretty redhead's face was cool as she held her arrow steady, and behind her a dark-haired temptress in tattered rags watched him with cunning eyes of molten gold.

_Uh-oh._

Pain bloomed in his skull as the pommel of a large sword slammed into the back of his skull. The sheer force behind the blow sent him flying forwards, head reeling, and he heard a too-loud crack as his head bounced off the hard ground.

Dazed, bruised, his head bursting with agony, the last thing he felt before the dizzying blackness took him was cynical amusement that the great Zevran Arainai, of the infamous Antivan Crows, met his end by a man ramming a massive sword into him from behind.

_~to be continued~_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Acknowledgement:** _Many thanks to my grammar fairy/editor,_ _ **Scarylady1**_ _. Your advice and patience are much appreciated._

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 2_

* * *

The first thing he felt was the pain; a steady, rhythmic throbbing ache in his head, like the repeated hammering of a dwarven smith upon his anvil. Instinctively he opened his eyes; the light shone piercingly bright, making him squeeze them shut and groan.

 _I must have indulged in too much brandy again_ , he thought blearily.

His stomach flipped as scents assailed his nose, of soil and steel and mud and... blood?

For a moment he wondered if he had been dragged into an alley fight again, before he remembered...

The contract on Grey Wardens, the trap, the fighting, and a wily human sneaking up behind him to knock him down.

 _I'm not dead_ , he realized, and didn't know whether to give thanks or to curse his fate.

But if he wasn't dead, where was he?

Groaning again, he carefully cracked his eyes open. The light wasn't too bright, for which he was grateful, although he still felt like throwing up. His vision was off-centre, everything a hazy blur of doubles; he suspected that would last for quite a while, considering the blow he recently suffered.

He was on the ground, lying on his stomach. Slowly, gingerly, he lifted his shoulders, propping himself on his elbows. The world tilted abruptly, and his gorge rose, threatening to make a smelly mess of half-digested food.

"Mmm..." Wincing, he raised his gaze...

...and found himself looking at the toes of a very large pair of steel boots.

He blinked. "...what?" He lifted his gaze slowly, his eyes following a pair of long, powerful legs past slim hips, over a sturdy waist and a pair of thick arms crossed over a broad chest and brawny shoulders, until he was finally staring at the Grey Warden's stern, unsmiling face.

A face that, thanks to his double-vision, was too hazy to make out.

He closed his eyes again, trying without much success to will his headache away, and opened his eyes in squinted slits. That did the trick; his vision abruptly cleared, and he was peering at the face of his victorious foe.

Up close and looking up from this angle, the Warden seemed enormous. Zevran saw a strong-featured face, with a squared jaw and the harsh, angular planes common to the higher echelons of Ferelden nobility; handsome in a harsh, somewhat intimidating way, and unexpectedly young.

He also had the most piercing set of eyes Zevran had ever seen.

Fascinating eyes... and a too-direct gaze that was surprisingly and frankly disconcerting. He wanted to look away, to break the contact, but didn't dare shift his eyes away from the razor-sharp stare that seemed intent on stripping him down to his bare soul.

A flicker of unease ran through him. He didn't even like the idea of having his soul bared to a fellow Crow. He certainly didn't want to show still-bleeding soul wounds to a hostile human in a foreign land.

"I... oh." He grimaced. "Ugh... I rather thought I would wake up dead. Or not wake up at all, as the case might be." He smiled, tentatively, in the manner of trapped prey seeking to appease a stalking predator. "But I see you haven't killed me yet."

The Grey Warden's eyebrows rose _very_ fractionally, and somehow managed to convey through that minute gesture an air of arrogance worthy of a king. "I decided I wanted to torture you, first," he said, in a nobleman's clipped accents. The Warden's voice was pleasant, a smooth drawling tenor; unfortunately, like his handsome and too-still face, it also gave nothing of his intentions or emotions away.

It was frightening, really, how the Grey Warden seemed about as emotive as a statue. Zevran wondered if the human had a heart of grey stone to match the title.

He glanced at the Warden's companions, taking his measure of them. The other Warden, the one with the sandy blond hair, was glaring at him, arms crossed and thin lips grimly set. The dark-haired witch did not glare, but she did eye him with a hunger that made him wonder if she actually possessed a set of carnivore's teeth behind her luscious, pouting lips. The redhead was... well, she didn't look hostile, and the wary curiosity in her sparkling eyes was actually somewhat friendly. Still, it was only one out of four, and he wasn't about to bet that the redhead would actually try help him.

Perhaps a little humour might be in order. The patented Zevran smirk, cultivated so very carefully over so many years, came easily to his face, and his eyes twinkled with mischief. "Ohhh, so you kept me around to have a bit of fun, did you?"

The Warden's face didn't shift, his body didn't move. He didn't even _blink_ , but Zevran swore the air around him suddenly turned as frosty as a Ferelden winter.

Oops.

"But the purpose of torture is usually to interrogate, yes?" he said hurriedly, cursing his verbal misstep. "In that case, despite the potential for fun, perhaps I'll save you a bit of time and get right to the point."

Well, that worked, at least; the chilliness grew the slightest bit warmer, but cold enough to leave Zevran in no doubt that, while this Warden looked pleasant, his personality did not match his appearance. The Warden nodded very slightly, a gesture Zevran took as permission to continue talking.

"My name is Zevran. Zev to my friends. I am a member of the Antivan Crows, brought here for the sole purpose of slaying any remaining Grey Wardens. Which I have failed at, sadly."

"I'm rather happy you failed," the Warden replied.

"So would I be, in your shoes," Zevran said, with a sincerity that he did not feel. "For me, however, it sets a rather poor precedent, doesn't it? Getting captured by a target seems a tad detrimental to one's budding assassin career." His mouth twisted in a wry smile.

"Too bad for you then."

Zevran sighed, a little more dramatically than was strictly necessary, and made a dejected face. "Yes, it's true. Too bad for me."

The redhead chuckled slightly and, while the Warden remained expressionless, some of the coldness leached out of his eyes. Zevran was thankful for that; the coldness really was very unnerving, and it took a lot of willpower not to simply curl up and whimper under that stare.

"What are the Antivan Crows?" the Warden asked.

Zevran's eyebrows shot up. A noble who didn't know who the Crows? He opened his mouth to reply, but a lilting female voice beat him to the answer.

"I can tell you that." The redhead was speaking, her voice soft and gentle. "They are an order of assassins out of Antiva. Very powerful, and renowned for always getting the job done… so to speak." The last few words were murmured with a sideways glance at Zevran, and her mouth was curved in amusement. He raised an eyebrow at the backhanded compliment. He liked this girl; she had a way with words.

The Warden didn't notice their quick exchange of glances. He was looking at the redhead without actually _looking_ at her; listening, frowning, _thinking_.

Then her mouth straightened, and her face grew sombre. "Someone went to great expense to hire this man," she said, softly.

"Quite right," Zevran said, drawing the Warden's gaze back to him. "I'm surprised you haven't heard much of the Crows out here. Back where I came from, we're rather infamous."

The Warden studied him, turned to glance at the redhead, before he looked up at the blond Warden. The blond Warden met the gaze, held it.

Zevran sensed the two men weighing his words, wordlessly communicating in the manner of close friends, before the Warden spoke again, his voice subdued and strangely disquieting, his gaze still fixed with the blond's:

"That's all I wanted to know."

That was a surprise. Zevran inwardly frowned. He expected the Warden to question him further, at the very least about _who_ hired him, why he was a target for assassination… before his mind picked out the reason why the Warden sounded so odd. The Warden was… tired. No, that wasn't the right word: the Warden was _resigned._

He _knew._ He knew who the man who hired Zevran was. Knew why that man, in the redhead's words, went to great expense to hire a Crow in the first place.

How very interesting.

Usually, men who sounded and behaved as the Warden did when faced with an assassination attempt had one of two reasons for behaving as they did: they either carried a guilty conscience from doing something so utterly unforgivable that someone would want to kill them out of revenge… or they knew that they posed a dangerous threat to someone, someone whom they knew would go to great lengths to get rid of that threat.

The Grey Warden did not have the air of guilt about him; Zevran himself was all-too-acquainted with that particular emotion, both from professional and personal experience. That put the Grey Warden in the latter category. The fact that he and his companions were out here, on the road, and dressed for much more than just defence from bandits and highwaymen, meant that they were prepared for something a lot more dangerous than your average criminal, or even a professional killer.

Zevran came looking for death; the Wardens were rather clearly expecting something that would likely bring more than just a sure death.

The very idea intrigued him.

It also gave him a new idea, and Zevran found himself speaking again.

"Then unless you're quite stuck on cutting my throat or something equally gruesome, perhaps you'd care to consider a proposal?"

Both Wardens whipped their heads around to stare at him. The blond man's face was rather easy to read: suspicion, mostly, with a slight hint of curiosity. The other Warden, on the other hand, was again wearing that indifferent mask.

"I'm listening," he said curtly. "Make it quick."

Zevran hid a smile of relief, before he spoke in his smoothest voice: "Well, here's the thing. I failed to kill you, so my life is forfeit. That's how it works. If you don't kill me, the Crows will." _With a long, slow, and painful torture session as an appetizer_ , if he got unlucky and ran into one of his more sadistic colleagues; which included about two-thirds of the order, unfortunately. "Thing is, I like living." _At least long enough to meet a quick, somewhat painless death._ "And you obviously are the sort to give the Crows pause. So, let me serve _you_ instead."

That last sentence startled a reaction out of the Warden's companions.

The blond was scowling darkly now, almost growling with displeasure and disgust. The witch was giving him a look that made it clear how well he compared to a slime-covered toad; he didn't do very well. The redhead stared at him with surprise and, on top of that, a shrewd interest that prickled his instincts; he was beginning to suspect that the woman had a background that was just as shady as his.

He was more interested in their leader's response, however, which was… still difficult to read, sadly. Looking at the blank face, Zevran was rapidly coming to the conclusion that the Warden really did have a heart of stone. Or he simply had a very, very limited range of expression. Or both. He didn't really know the Warden well enough to form a proper conclusion.

There was a long, uncomfortable moment of silence, the Warden giving him that soul-searching look again. Zevran kept his face neutral, doing his best to ignore the trickle of cold sweat down his spine.

"…Very well. I accept your offer."

Zevran blinked.

He'd expected a quick judgement, but he had not expected the Warden to simply _accept._

Was the other man so sure that Zevran wouldn't betray him? Or was he confident that he wouldn't die, even with Zevran potentially betraying him? Or was he just a madman that couldn't care less about who, or what, Zevran was?

While Zevran processed the implications of the Warden simply accepting his offer without questioning, the _other_ Warden exploded with indignation.

"What? You're taking the _assassin_ with us now?" the blond yelped. "Does that seem like a good idea?"

The Warden turned to look at his friend with a smile curving his mouth. Zevran stared. The smile was equal parts confidence and charm; it made the Warden look very young and very handsome indeed. "Don't worry about it," the Warden said, his tone cajoling, soothing… and _incredibly_ persuasive. "We could use him."

"Hmm." The blond frowned again, although this was more of a thoughtful furrowing of the brow rather than the hostile scowls from earlier. "All right, all right. I see your point." The blond turned and gave Zevran a disapproving glare, and his next words dripped with sarcasm. "Still, if there was a sign we were desperate, I think it just knocked on the door and said hello."

There was a scoff. "A fine plan," the witch suddenly spoke up. "But I would examine your food and drink far more closely from now on, if I were you." She had an interesting voice, low and purring, with a somewhat archaic accent that made her sound wild and exotic. Zevran found her voice seductive… in a somewhat disturbing way.

Still, the witch had a point. "That's excellent advice for anyone," he said cheerfully.

The witch's response to that was to give him a smile that showed a little too much teeth.

He suspected that he himself should watch his own food and drink very closely in the future; especially if she was the one preparing it.

"Welcome, Zevran." It was the redhead speaking this time, and her smile was as warm as her words. "Having an Antivan Crow join us sounds like a fine plan."

Zevran smirked. Smart, pretty, and sweet. He liked her, and he had a suspicion that she was someone he would get along rather famously with. Still, he couldn't resist a bit of teasing. "Oh? You are another companion-to-be, then? I wasn't aware such loveliness existed amongst adventurers, surely."

The smile instantly vanished from her face. "Or maybe not."

Looking at her somewhat outraged expression, Zevran manfully swallowed back a laugh.

The Warden, face impassive, bent down and held his hand out. Knowing an olive branch when he saw one, Zevran reached up and clasped the offered hand. Strong fingers closed about his, and he felt his heart skip a beat at the contact.

He relished the feel of the Warden's sure grip as he allowed the tall man to help him to his feet, and for a moment he wondered where the Warden's fancies lay. But the piercing stare was back on him again, this time with an air of expectation, and Zevran stored that notion away in a corner of his mind, to be re-examined later in private.

He had sworn oaths of loyalty (both real and false) many, many times before; the words came to him easily, already second nature. "I hereby pledge my oath of loyalty to you, until such a time as you choose to release me from it. I am your man, without reservation… this I swear." He finished this with a bowing of his head; then he raised his gaze, meeting the Warden's eyes, and wondered what thoughts flitted behind that expressionless mask.

The Warden studied him very briefly, still clutching his hand, before the mobile lips curved.

The grip about his fingers tightened; Zevran felt his lungs tighten in response.

"I find myself wondering how well you would actually keep those words." The cultured voice was quiet, the words clearly meant for Zevran's ears only. The smile widened very slightly, and there was an almost predatory anticipation in that little smile. "Things are going to become very interesting." Then the Warden turned away, releasing his hand, already strolling to one of the many bodies strewn along the path before Zevran could think of a reply.

Three pairs of eyes stared at the bemused elf for a while, and then the others joined their leader, fanning out as they started poking amongst the dead for valuables.

Zevran watched the Warden's retreating back, half his mind dwelling on the whisper-soft words, the other half still savouring the lingering warmth left behind by the Warden's hand, and he found himself agreeing to the Warden's remark.

Things were going to be very interesting indeed.

_~to be continued~_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Acknowledgement:** _Many thanks to my beta,_ _ **[Sia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sia/pseuds/Sia)**_ _. Your advice and patience are much appreciated._
> 
> _She also writes a lovely Zevran fic, "[The Rescue](http://archiveofourown.org/works/434773)", and Zevran lovers should check it out._

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 3_

* * *

"Take your armor off."

"...I beg your pardon?"

The Warden's eyes narrowed, his lips thinning before he repeated the command through gritted teeth. "Take your armor off."

Zevran stared.  I must be dreaming , he thought, but he wasn't. He was in the campsite, it was late, and the Warden, dressed in simple tunic and breeches that were a little too small for his frame, was asking Zevran to  strip .

Not that I wouldn't enjoy stripping off for him, especially if he did the same, but... He frowned. "Is there a reason why should I take my armor off?"

"Because it's rubbish." The Warden's tone was exasperated. "And before you object, I know that the armor you have now is well-made…  if you're preparing for an encounter with a weak and untrained target. But against a darkspawn patrol?" He shook his head. "You won't last more than ten heartbeats, at most."

Ouch. That was a rather negative assessment of his skills. Zevran had not actually fought more than one or two darkspawn; he and his mercenaries were careful to avoid large groups, but they'd inevitably stumbled across the occasional straggler or scout. Darkspawn seem to be rather stupid, prone to charging aggressively without appearing to care about the actual number of enemies involved. No finesse at all, and therefore easy enough to kill. "I think I'm skilled enough in combat to resist getting mauled by a few beasties, no?" he said with a teasing grin.

"Sure you are." The sarcasm was heavy enough to feel almost like a punch to the face. "I'll just stand with my arms crossed and tell you 'I told you so' when the darkspawn drag you off underground to Maker-knows-what." A pause. "If they don't mutilate and eat you first."

Zevran gave the Warden a blank look; considering the man's mood, a neutral expression was better than an outright frown. He almost hoped that the Warden was just intimidating him, but the patrician face was grimly serious. "They… don't actually eat people, do they?"

The sharp smile that he received was mirthless. "Why not ask them? I'm quite sure they'll be happy to give you a demonstration. Just give us a warning before you do so. Darkspawn blood is poisonous, you know, and if any of it gets into your bloodstream, you'll die. Slowly. Painfully. With a lot of screaming, and you'll go mad in the process… or so I heard." While Zevran was digesting all of this, the Warden turned around and looked at the tents. "We keep spare equipment for emergencies; you can use them until we can buy a properly fitting set of armor for you. Leliana!"

The redheaded woman he'd met earlier looked up from the lute she was restringing as she was sitting by the campfire. "Yes, Warden?" she answered.

"Can you take some of the light armor out of the supply tent for Zevran, please?"

"Of course, Warden." Setting the lute aside, the woman – Leliana – gracefully rose to her feet, and then sashayed over to one of the small tents pitched nearby, her hips swaying as she moved. It was a rather splendid view, even at a distance. Zevran briefly entertained several lurid thoughts in his head, mostly revolving around how that pert-looking bottom might feel beneath his hands, before quietly dismissing them. Leliana seemed nice enough, but she also a little... odd. He suspected that she wasn't entirely right in the head, and he didn't really need to complicate what was left of his life with strange females.

"Don't steal any of the cookies," the Warden called out as she ducked into the tent.

"You told me that before," Leliana said, her voice muffled by the tent.

"You also snitched some of them the last time I told you," the Warden replied. His tone was mostly annoyed, but there was a hint of amusement as well. "Our qunari friend wasn't pleased about that."

"But they're so delicious!" she said plaintively.

" Leliana. "

"All right, all right… spoilsport." The last was said rather quietly, but in the mostly silent night air voices had a tendency to carry over a little too well.

"I  heard that." The Warden rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath as he turned to look back at Zevran. "Cheeky little—" He broke off, frowning. "Why are you still dressed?"

Because watching you arguing with Leliana was more amusing, Zevran thought. Unfortunately that answer would most likely get him yelled at, so he shrugged and lied: "Why, I'm waiting for the fair lady to walk away, of course. I wouldn't want to scandalize the poor woman, after all." He gave the Warden his most innocent expression.

The Warden was no fool, however. He simply stared back before he slowly, deliberately, spoke through tightly clenched teeth: "Armor. Off.  Now. "

Zevran clicked his tongue, shaking his head in mock disapproval. "Such impatience. It makes one wonder if you are really so eager to see me naked." Before the Warden could reply, he strolled to a log, sat on it, and started to take off his boots.

He kept his eyes on his boot, but he could feel the Warden's glare directed his way. He smothered a grin; his new 'master' really was too easy to rile. He had to admit, watching those sharp eyes spark with anger was rather arousing; coupled with the threat that the Warden might actually decide to physically hurt him, it made it very,  very difficult for Zevran to resist teasing him.

An almighty  crash of metal made both him and the Warden jump, and he was jolted out of his thoughts. They both turned to stare at the tent Leliana had disappeared into. The crash receded into a slowly fading clatter before all was silent again.

Moments later, Leliana's head poked out of the tent, her eyes wide. When she realised that she was being stared at, her eyes widened even more, and then she giggled.

"Oops." A faint blush crept over her cheeks. "I… um, sorry. I'll just… clean things up." She disappeared into the tent again.

"Andraste's knickers," the Warden muttered, and strode to the tent. "She'd better not have damaged anything. I paid a lot of coin for some of that equipment." He paused midway to give Zevran a glare over his shoulder. "That armor better be off by the time I get back, or it's your hide I'm tanning."

Zevran raised an eyebrow in challenge, but the Warden had already turned and walked away. Scoffing, he lowered his gaze… and was instantly transfixed by the sight of high, tight buttocks flexing beneath the fitted breeches, visible courtesy of the slightly too-short tunic. He stared, mouth suddenly dry, until the man he was so blatantly ogling ducked and disappeared between the tent flaps.

Grimacing, Zevran busied himself with removing his armor, frowning as he noticed the suspicious red stains on the leather. Blood, but none of his; likely the splatters came from one of his luckless hired lackeys. Mentally shrugging, he continued to undo buckles, and at the same time tried very hard to will away the inevitable reaction between his legs from ogling the Warden.

He wasn't surprised that he desired the Warden. Zevran considered himself an aficionado of all things beautiful, and the Warden was a fine specimen of male beauty indeed, with his coldly handsome face and broad shoulders and wide chest and long, sleekly-muscled legs. But it wasn't the physical looks that drew his eye and held his attention; it was that aura of barely-leashed power that he'd sensed from the moment he'd first laid eyes on the Warden, evocative of something  wild and  fierce  prowling beneath the surface. It called to him, lured him, sent his instincts flickering with both alarm and frank interest. He'd always found danger exciting, and there was little doubt that the Warden was an impossibly dangerous man.

It made him wonder whether the Warden carried that innate wildness to more... intimate activities.

Zevran usually looked for women for those kinds of games; given the choice, he preferred the feel of soft, luscious flesh and gentle curves beneath him. But he was raised to be practical about sex and pleasure – whorehouse boys had little choice, really – and the Crows were not above using sex as a weapon. Men, with their strong hands and firm bodies, had their own sort of allure, and Zevran rarely denied any opportunity to have a little fun between the sheets.

He wanted the Warden's body; there was no question about that.

The  real  question was whether the Warden would feel the same about his.

He'd stripped off all his armor; left with only the short tunic and underclothes he wore beneath the leather, he pondered the wisdom of pursuing an affair with the Warden.

He sighed. The tricky thing with chasing another man for sex was that it wasn't always easy to tell if that man would accept his advances. Some men were open about their preferences, while others were… not so open. He had seen more than enough men who claimed to desire only the female sex, with some even marrying women to strengthen their claim… and yet these same men would also visit whorehouses to secretly buy a pretty boy or two. A contemptible practice, really. Zevran was no saint, and he certainly was no stranger to lies and falsehood, but such cheats were undeserving of his respect. He held the opinion that men who were so dishonest about their desires, that they would marry in order to hide their love for other men, were nothing more than dogs.

He pitied the women who had to endure these men; some of them would have to suffer the lack of a man to warm their bed, while the others would still have to put up with cheats for husbands. Zevran prided himself on never being a cheat. He was careful to make sure that his affairs, professional and otherwise, were quick, uncomplicated, and easily abandoned when things turned unpleasant.

He didn't know the Warden, and the other man certainly didn't know him. He couldn't tell if the Warden liked other men.  Likewise, he doubted the Warden would know about his preferences, or lack thereof.

There was also the problem of the Warden's clear distrust; it was implicit in the way those eyes watched him like a wolf watching a poisonous snake. If he was honest to himself, he didn't trust the Warden very well either.

Perhaps it would be wiser to wait and see. He was in no hurry, after all, and he suspected he would be staying with the Warden's company for quite some time.

"So… ready to try on some new armor?"

He blinked. The voice was female, tinged with an Orlesian lilt; he looked up and found Leliana standing beside him, smiling and holding an armful of mail, with no sign of the Warden anywhere nearby.

"Where—"

"He went to see Bodahn," she replied before he could finish, smiling brightly.

Ahh… "And who is this 'Bodahn' fellow?"

"A dwarven merchant. He's camped over there." She pointed off into the distance.

Zevran followed the direction of her finger, and saw a faint silhouette of a large cart and two short figures milling beside it. There was also… he squinted. Ah, there it was; a much taller figure was speaking to one of the short ones, hands gesturing about in the familiar movements of a customer haggling with a merchant.

"I see…" He frowned. "What is a dwarven merchant doing following the Warden?"

"Oh, he claims not be following us, or so I'm told." Leliana giggled. "We met him and his son, Sandal, in Lothering and rescued him from a group of darkspawn. He was very grateful about it, and… well, when we next made camp after we left Lothering, the Warden saw that Bodahn had camped nearby. He's been doing that ever since."

Zevran's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Wouldn't the presence of a merchant with a cart full of valuables be somewhat dangerous?"

Leliana's eyes widened, and then she shook her head. "Oh, no. Not at all! In fact, the reason why Bodahn camped near us was because  we  drove the bandits  away. He isn't a burden, really, and he sells some really useful things. Sandal — Maker bless the boy — can enchant weapons as well. So it's not like we don't benefit from this… uh, arrangement."

Well, if she put it that way… he had to agree that it was a most practical arrangement, although the circumstances were a little unusual. Then again, his arrangement with the Warden was unusual in and of itself; who was he to comment about what was usual and what wasn't?

But why would the Warden see the merchant at this time?

He didn't realize he had spoken aloud until he heard Leliana giggle again. "The Warden said he remembered seeing a pair of gloves that he thought would suit you better than what we do have." She grinned. "Speaking of that, I believe we should be choosing some new things for you, yes?"

Blinking, he turned to see Leliana stroll over to a surprisingly large pile of equipment stacked up beside the log he sat on. "That's a lot of armor."

"We collected a lot of it," she said with a shrug. "There are quite a few we can't wear, but the Warden insisted we store it, since those items would prove useful when we get strong enough to wear them."

That wasn't what he meant by the question. Leliana couldn't have carried all of it in one trip… could she? "You carried all of that by yourself?"

"What? No!" she exclaimed. "Dear Maker, I would've been unable to move if I carried even half of it. I made several trips back and forth, although the Warden had carried some of the heavier armor over here the first time around. The Warden wanted to ask you, but I told him you had to remove your own armor, and you seemed to be in deep thought..." Leliana smiled. "I didn't think it was nice to make you help, and I don't have anything to do, anyhow."

He watched her rifle through the pile, outwardly calm, but inwardly he was swearing with consternation. He had been pondering the Warden, and he had not noticed them moving about… it was more than a little disturbing. He had never been distracted to such an extent, not since he had become a full-fledged Crow. An easily-distracted and unobservant assassin very quickly became a dead assassin, after all.

He was right. It was unwise to think about the Warden in  that manner, especially when he did not trust the company of people he was in.

Pushing that thought to the back of his mind, he conjured his most charming smile. "Well, let it be said that I always enjoy the company of a lovely woman."

Leliana gave him an amused smile. "Do you always talk like that?"

His smile widened into a grin. "Only to beautiful women like yourself."

She stared at him, then with a roll of her eyes, turned back to the armor pile. "You are utterly impossible."

"On the contrary, I am often told how very easy I am, my dear," he said with a chuckle.

"That's precisely what I'm talking about," she said dryly. "Now then…" She lifted a shirt of mail out of the pile. "I believe this will suit you very well…"

Smiling at the change of topic, Zevran got off the log and strolled over to Leliana's side. For now, he would not think too much of the Warden... perhaps another day. For now, he would simply do as he was told, and choose his new armor. It wouldn't do for him to show up naked and vulnerable before a handsome sex god, after all.

_~to be continued~_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Note to readers:** Chapters 3 to 30 in the original posting of this story at Fanfiction.net (which can be read here: [[link]](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6031831/1/Of_Whoresons_and_Nobles)) had _not_ been beta'ed. Because of the previous lack of beta, I will be rewriting the above chapters before I post them in AO3. Therefore, the AO3 version of _Of Whoresons and Nobles_ will have some differences from the FFN version. Most of these will be minor rewrites and additional content, but the overall storyline and major plot points will be the same.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Acknowledgement:** _Many thanks to my beta,_ _ **[Sia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sia/pseuds/Sia)**_ _. Your advice and patience are much appreciated._
> 
> _She also writes a lovely Zevran fic, "[The Rescue](http://archiveofourown.org/works/434773)", and Zevran lovers should check it out._

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 4_

* * *

Leliana, Zevran soon discovered, may be sweet and gentle in behavior and speech, but there was steel beneath that soft, distinctly feminine exterior. The task was simple enough; choose a new set of armor that the Warden would approve of. What followed was a long and lively "discussion" over the benefits of wearing sturdy medium-weight armor versus flexible lightweight armor.

He was used to wearing light armor, for the flexibility it provided and its lightness that allowed him to move with speed and stealth ("All that metal would make my every move rattle like pots being thrown down a flight of stairs."); Leliana insisted that only medium armor would protect him sufficiently ("The darkspawn are vicious and violent; they are not like the nobles you are used to killing.") He had to point out, rather curtly, that he simply didn't have sufficient strength to wear the medium-weight armor that they had (not for long, anyway, and certainly not while on a battlefield dodging arrows and slashes), and only then did she reluctantly give in.

Just to appease her, though, he picked the sturdiest light armor in their inventory: a finely made set of inscribed leather covered with steel studs. A bit stiffer and heavier than he would be used to, but he'll just have to get used to it.

Leliana did not give him the matching boots, however, instead handing him a fancier and lighter-looking pair. He stared at her, one eyebrow raised. "And here I expected you to give me the bulkiest pair."

"Don't be silly," she scoffed. "You said you wanted to be quick on your feet, yes? A lighter pair of boots will help."

He sat back on the log, then picked up one of the boots and inspected it. The boots were finely-made indeed, elegant in cut, and very light. They were also well-worn, and  very old. "These do not look like something you would find on amongst a merchant's wares."

Leliana smiled. "You have a good eye. They once belonged to Lady Rosamund, a clever and infamous bandit that once lived in the Korcari Wilds. She was quick and cunning, and for decades she ambushed any merchant unlucky enough to become her target, and eluded capture with wit and guile. She simply disappeared one day, however, and no one found any trace of her body…or the treasure rumored to be hidden in the Korcari Wilds."

He raised his eyebrows. Leliana's lilting voice had fallen into the sing-song pattern of a minstrel telling a story, designed to ensnare and capture an audience. Hooded eyes narrowed as little things clicked into place: the steady eye and hand with the bow, the dexterous fingers capable of picking apart locks and disabling traps… and the voice, trained so well to cloud minds and soothe emotions, to inspire and distract, ultimately to influence…

"You were trained in the bardic arts."

He didn't bother phrasing his words in the form of a question. He didn't need to; her face and manner did not change, but that lack of surprise alone was a give-away.

Although to be fair, she was  very good with the mask; only someone such as he, an assassin trained in the arts of observing a mark (as well as catching hidden witnesses and questioning informants), would notice the tell-tale signs that the less observant would miss. Like the brief widening of her eyes, and the very subtle hitch in her breath.

Then she blinked, and smiled. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that a Crow would know about bards," she murmured.

"Bards? You mean the poet-spies that serve and mingle in the Orlesian courts, collecting secrets for their nameless employers? Nope, never heard of such a thing." He had been looking at the boots; deciding that they were adequate, he shrugged and put them on with little struggle (they were made for a woman's feet, but he was an elf, and small-boned enough). "The Crows have crossed paths with bards before; sometimes violently, sometimes not so."

"And you would have learned to recognize bards from minstrels, yes?"

"Perhaps. One could never tell. In the same way, it is rather difficult to separate a trained assassin from a skilled murderer, no?"

"Diff…oh." She frowned. "Now you're just making fun of me."

Zevran grinned. He was spared from having to reply, however. A long, broad shadow fell across his line of sight; the Warden had returned, and was now standing beside him.

Those sharp eyes swept over Zevran's body, and while he knew the Warden was simply inspecting his outfit and not looking out of desire, the intensity of the gaze made it almost feel like a physical caress. Suppressing a little shudder, he remained seated, and gave thanks for the looseness of leather skirts.

You're acting like a boy yet to control his manhood , he thought to himself in disgust.

"That took quite a while," Leliana remarked as she gathered the remaining equipment. "Did something happen?"

The Warden scoffed. "Other than being cheated out of an unreasonable amount of coin? Absolutely nothing at all. If these are the prices Bodahn charges after his so-called  discount , I shudder to think of what I have to pay at his full prices."

"Well, he  does provide an easy supply of things," Leliana murmured. "Less travelling, less random encounter with raid parties..."

The Warden sighed. "Yes, yes, I know. But still..." He suddenly started speaking in a higher, fast-pitched voice, in a startlingly-accurate dwarven accent. "'I'm sure you'll be pleased with the goods my boy and I have collected. And with your  discount! ' Bah!"

Zevran watched, wide-eyed with shock, as the Warden began to pace up and down in front of the campfire, his arms waving about as he ranted, volume climbing with every word. "I save his arse when it was hanging out naked in front of a darkspawn axe and what does he do in thanks? Bloody charges me with overpriced goods! I did not even ask for a reward when I rescued the bastard, and he knows I damn well could have. Should have, in fact, and I was being generous to not do so. He knew that too, and he  still makes me pay for things that I can get at much cheaper prices elsewhere. And he doesn't even give me the best prices when I sell my things. You'd think that with all the hiked prices that he'd have a codpiece made of gold by now! One of these days I'll strangle that gold-grubbing, lying, ungrateful… argh! " He kicked at a rock on the ground, sending the innocent thing flying off to be lost in the bushes some distance away, then flopped down on the log beside Zevran, an elbow coming to rest on one knee and his face smacking into the waiting palm.

An awkward silence fell, broken only slightly by the crackling of the fire and the chirping of crickets.

"…Bloody load of tripe, that's what it is," the Warden finally muttered.

Zevran stared at the human, and wondered if he had indeed sworn himself to a dangerous lunatic.

Leliana did not seem to feel any alarm though; she had started smiling as the Warden launched into his tirade, and when the Warden sat down she was already biting her lower lip. The Warden's last words were the last straw; she started giggling, hand clapped over her mouth in a vain attempt to snuffle the sounds.

The Warden peered at her from between his fingers, not lifting his face from his palm. "I'm so  pleased you find this entertaining," he said in a muffled drawl.

"I'm sorry," Leliana said, grinning. "You're just so… grim most of the time, it's so hard to see you actually display any emotion, much less something as, um, strong as that."

The Warden snorted, straightening as he did. "A good leader does not explode in front of his followers," he said stiffly, although the tiny smile that curved his lips spoiled the effect. "It's bad for morale."

"But you'd have bottled up your feelings, and when you do explode, you would have been a lot more violent, yes?" Leliana giggled again. "Admit it, Warden, you needed to vent, and you feel better now, don't you?"

"That I do," the Warden sighed.

"Besides… you didn't shout  too loudly." Leliana's smile took on a wicked gleam. "Nobody woke up, as far as I can see."

"Nobody woke—oh  Maker. " The Warden's face paled. " Wynne.  She—"

"Is still asleep, Warden." Leliana gestured towards one of the tents. "I suspect the mages didn't get much privacy, after what we have seen in the Circle; I believe Wynne could sleep through most strange noises at night."

"That's…not very comforting. I'd rather not have her sleep though an alarm in camp."

"Oh, I doubt she would be as unaware as that." Grinning, Leliana pointed to the armor pile. "Perhaps helping me move these would cool your head a little?"

"Perhaps." With a groan, the Warden stood and stretched. "Bodahn is still a cutthroat, and a greedy bastard, just so you know." The Warden blinked, and then looked at Zevran. "I just remembered; I brought you something." He pulled out a pair of leather gloves that were hooked over the side of his belt, and held them out to Zevran. "I don't know what your size is exactly, but I think this should fit well enough."

Wordlessly, Zevran reached up and took the gloves. The leather was stiff and tough, more like gauntlets than gloves; he put one of them on, flexing his fingers, and found it comfortable and flexible enough. There was an odd tingling in his hand as he shifted his fingers.  Lyrium , his mind supplied in response to the sensation. The gloves were simple in cut and shape, although there was a vaguely Orlesian style in the carvings decorating them . But the gloves were of fine pieces of leatherwork, and the lyrium enchantments in it would no doubt provide Zevran with an extra edge in a fight.

"Thank you," he said at last, and he meant it. "They are very fine gloves."

"You're welcome, and considering how much they cost, they bloody should be, or I'll whip Bodahn's gold-squeezing arse all the way back to Orzammar."

Zevran had always been blessed with a rather lurid imagination; his childhood amongst whores and his experiences as a Crow had only twisted it further. Said imagination had grabbed the Warden's words like a child grabs at candy, and gleefully tossed back an image that made Zevran's eyes nearly pop out of their sockets, then laugh so hard that he fell backwards off the log to land sprawled on his back.

He could feel Leliana and the Warden's incredulous stares on him as he chortled helplessly, and that only made him laugh harder. After a moment, the Warden stepped over to Zevran's side of the log, and nudged him not-too-gently with the toe of a booted foot. "What's so funny?"

Oh no. He might have a death wish, but he wasn't about to risk a painful death by telling the Warden what exactly had gone through his mind. Although not telling might make the Warden torture him until he did—then again, Zevran enjoyed games like those, so he didn't mind. Still on his back, Zevran grinned up at the Warden. "Believe me, my dear Grey Warden, when I say that you wouldn't find it funny."

The Warden scowled. He really was quite handsome, even with that little furrow in his brow. Zevran wanted to trail his tongue over the lines to smooth them away, before licking down the strong nose, and tracing over the firm lips until they softened and parted...

"I'm not your ‘dear Warden’," the Warden snapped, "and why wouldn't I find it fun…" His voice trailed off, and an uneasy expression drifted over his face. After a moment, he gave Zevran a wary look. "…do I even want to know?"

Zevran knew a good opportunity when he saw one. He languidly sat up, his smile growing sultry, and his eyelids lowered as he gave the Warden a lazy, melting stare. "I could happily share my thoughts…and more, my dear Warden," he purred. "You only have to wish it."

The Warden's eyes narrowed as he gave Zevran a long, hard stare. "…Maker's breath." With that muttered oath, the Warden headed for the armor pile, and started gathering it up in a huff. "I have a templar-trained bastard with a penchant for inappropriate witticisms who claims to be raised by dogs, a heartless shrew of a witch who eats men's hearts for breakfast, a former Chantry lay sister who claims to have visions from the Maker but is most likely just delusional—"

"I am standing right here, you know," Leliana said.

The Warden appeared to ignore her, almost viciously stuffing the armor his arms together in a bundle. Zevran winced as metal screeched against metal. "—a stone-faced qunari who supposedly murdered poor helpless farmers in cold blood, and a wise old mage who…well, is just too damn normal to fit in this little menagerie, and now I have an assassin who had tried to kill me, failed in doing so, and seems to have gone soft in the head after that crack to the skull. What's next, a smart-mouthed talking statue?" He scoffed as he straightened up while juggling what armor he managed to gather. "Maker preserve our poor souls…especially mine. Or better yet, my sanity, if there's anything of that left." The Warden stalked off, arms full of metal and mouth full of half-inarticulate curses.

Zevran's eyes followed the Warden's retreating back. He had to admit, the Warden had a truly marvelous behind. He chuckled as he stood up, dusting himself off. He really should back off on the teasing, or one of these days the Warden might actually strangle him. Immediately his imagination supplied him with the sensation of a strong hand closing about his throat, slowly squeezing his breath out, and his head growing lighter as his lungs struggled for air…

…perhaps that wouldn't be a good enough reason to stop.

"You really are quite terrible, you know, making our Warden go into a fit like that."

"Hmm?" He looked up at Leliana's twinkling eyes. "Oh, it's all in good fun. Besides, if the Warden really wanted to kill me, I think he'll just reach for his knife and stab me without a word."

"True." Leliana glanced around, and then slid closer to Zevran, her voice dropping into a whisper. "So… what were you thinking about that was so funny?"

Smirking, Zevran told her. In lurid detail. And had the pleasure of watching her eyes grow to the size of saucers.

"… oh. Yes, I can see why the Warden wouldn't find it funny." She grimaced. "Although I'd rather not see in the first place. You're a bad, bad, man."

"I know, I know. Terrible. The women love it though."

She scoffed as she went and picked up the rest of the armor. "Sometimes, Zevran, I wonder how do you—"

A loud barking suddenly pierced the air, and a large four-legged shadow barreled out of the bushes and skidded to the stop in front of the fire. A long, lolling tongue licked a broad muzzle that was still flecked with blood, and there was another peal of barking as the shadow—a mabari hound, Zevran realized, and a very  large one—pranced around in front of the fire.

The Warden's head poked out of the tent. "Anlan! Shush!"

Anlan immediately stilled, head tilted to the side. He whined inquisitively, but the Warden had returned back into the tent.

"Oh! Our brave hunters have returned, then." Leliana looked at the dog. "… or one of them, at least."

The mabari barked as if in reply.

There was more rustling, and the clanking of metal as a familiar-looking blond showed up at the campsite, dragging half a deer carcass behind him. "You know, this would've been a lot easier if that mabari preferred chasing rabbits," the blond—Alistair, Zevran remembered—panted as he dumped the carcass beside the fire.

The mabari barked again.

"I know deer is more satisfying, but do you have to go kill such a large one?"

More barking. Zevran could almost swear that dog was actually trying to  talk.

Apparently Leliana and Alistair were used to this. "Well, we do have a lot of people to feed," Leliana murmured as she crouched down beside the carcass, taking out a dagger. "You and the Warden alone eat enough for six people."

"What can I say?" Alistair said with a lopsided grin. "It's a Grey Warden thing."

There was a sigh as a hulking giant suddenly appeared behind Alistair. "Or perhaps you're simply greedy and fond of stuffing your face like pigs."

"Hey! Not my fault I have a healthy appetite. And what took you so long anyway?"

"I am making sure we are not being followed." The giant—who must be the qunari the Warden had mentioned—dropped the other half of the deer beside Alistair. "You and that hound made enough noise to wake any number of large predators, or attract a band of scouting darkspawn."

"Can't help with the predator bit, but I can sense darkspawn, remember?"

"Surprising. I wonder if you actually pay attention, considering how much time you spend your time talking of inconsequential things."

"You're as bad as Morrigan," Alistair grumbled, giving the qunari an accusatory glare.

"At least the mage uses her brain." The qunari paused, his stern face scowling. "… even if she is a viper."

"I leave any of you alone for a moment and you start arguing," said a dry voice in clipped accents. The Warden emerged from the tent, dusting his hands. "Charming, really, how well we all get along."

"Warms the heart, doesn't it?" Alistair said with a mischievous smile.

"Brings tears to the eye," the Warden agreed, straight-faced. "Look at us, holding hands and skipping down the muddy brown road while singing of friendship and love."

There was an odd snorting sound. Zevran turned; Leliana had a hand clapped over her mouth, and she was quivering. Her eyes had that twinkle again.

"All to the melody of agonized screams, war cries, and clashing metal," Alistair sighed, his face mournful as he placed a hand over his heart. "It's like listening to the Chant of Light, only with a little more… blood."

Leliana giggled helplessly.

The Wardens stared at each other for a moment, and then smiled almost identical grins.

Zevran seriously wondered if he had really fallen in with a band of lunatics.

"… parshaara. " Stone-faced, the qunari strode away from the fire. "You humans are incomprehensible."

"We have cookies in the tent," the Warden called after the qunari. "You can have them."

The qunari paused. Then, slowly, he stomped off again—in the direction of the supply tent.

"He really does like cookies, doesn't he?" Alistair observed.

"That he does," the Warden murmured. "I like to keep my companions happy, and it's not  too difficult to steal cookies from children."

" Warden. " Leliana sounded scandalized. "You didn't!"

The Warden rolled his eyes. "Of course I didn't." He raised an eyebrow at Leliana. "What kind of monster do you think I am? I brought those cookies from a baker in the last town we passed by."

"Oh." Leliana frowned. "Well, I guess that's—"

"I did steal a few pastries from the baker though."

Alistair roared with laughter, while Leliana, wide-eyed with a mix of shock and outrage, spluttered. But then the Warden smiled a charming grin at her, and she giggled again.

"You're terrible, all of you," she said, reaching over and lightly slapping the Warden in the arm. The Warden shrugged, absently rubbing at where she hit him.

"Speaking of companions…" the Warden turned, and caught Zevran's eye.

Zevran felt his heart skip a beat as a broad, entirely-too-untrustworthy grin spread across the Warden's face. Granted, the Warden looked entirely-too-handsome when he did that, but it also reminded Zevran of a cat that was just about to pounce on a cornered bird.

"Since we're all gathered here..." His voice casual, the Warden sauntered over to Zevran's side and before the assassin could react, had draped a powerful, muscular arm over his shoulders.

Zevran froze. The warm, hard body (and the aura of danger surrounding it) was overwhelming, and the toothy grin was still there. One part of him wanted to break away and run for his life; another part simply wanted to curl up against all that muscle and heat.

Perhaps the Warden was right. That blow to the head had ruined my brain.

Warily, he turned and gave the Warden a narrow-eyed look. "What is it?"

The Warden chuckled, and the grin grew wider. "Why, I'm going to introduce you to all your new friends!" the Warden said with false cheer. "Now don't you worry, they won't bite…well, except for Anlan here, he bit Alistair once. But Anlan's a good boy, most of the time."

There was a happy bark. The mabari had trotted over to Zevran's side, and was giving him a tongue-hanging doggy grin.

Wonderful. "I suppose that would be for the best."

"Excellent!" The Warden straightened, and a voice in Zevran's head screamed in protest as that warmth separated from him. He shivered (from the sudden chill or the desire, he couldn't tell), and then the breath  whooshed  out of him as the Warden gave him a hard slap on the back. "All you have to do is sit down and look pretty. Let the rest do the interro—talking, I mean."

And then the Warden was striding away, whistling a jaunty tune; after a while Alistair followed, shooting Zevran one last wary glare over a broad shoulder.

"Zevran?"

He turned, and found Leliana giving him a worried look. "Are you okay? You look like you swallowed a live worm."

He gave her a slightly wobbly grin. "I'm all right, Leliana. Just a little overwhelmed, is all."

She stared at him, clearly unconvinced. "If you say so," she said eventually. "I have to go prepare dinner. You can sit down and…well, make yourself comfortable." She smiled briefly, and then she left, presumably to get the utensils.

Zevran sat down on one of the logs again, and stared at the fire.

Leliana said he looked like he swallowed a live worm; he felt more like a live worm about to be thrown into a nest of hungry chicks ready to tear him apart.

Propping his elbows on his knees, he dropped his head into his hands and groaned.

_~to be continued~_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Note to readers:** Chapters 3 to 30 in the original posting of this story at Fanfiction.net (which can be read here: [[link]](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6031831/1/Of_Whoresons_and_Nobles)) had _not_ been beta'ed. Because of the previous lack of beta, I will be rewriting the above chapters before I post them in AO3. Therefore, the AO3 version of _Of Whoresons and Nobles_ will have some differences from the FFN version. Most of these will be minor rewrites and additional content, but the overall storyline and major plot points will be the same.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Acknowledgement:** _Many thanks to my beta,_ _ **[Sia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sia/pseuds/Sia)**_ _. Your advice and patience are much appreciated._
> 
> _She also writes a lovely Zevran fic, "[The Rescue](http://archiveofourown.org/works/434773)", and Zevran lovers should check it out._

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 5_

* * *

The Warden's way of introducing him to the others that joined for dinner—a simple, hearty meal of roasted venison, with strong hard cheese and rough bread—around the campfire was straightforward: "Friends, meet Zevran. He tried to kill me, failed, and decided to join us so that his masters can't kill him. So now he's one of us. Be nice, and try not to spill too much blood."

Contrary to what the Warden implied—or what he thought the Warden had implied—the rest of the Warden's companions were not immediately keen to talk to him.

What they  did do, however, was study him silently, between breaks in their bantering amongst each other. Zevran was a bit relieved that they didn't question him too much. But their silence meant that they were taking their measure of him—and he wouldn't be able to discern what they were thinking without them talking to him.

Leliana did strike up conversation with him, and pretty soon they were half-whispering to each other about the various habits of the nobility and the filthy rich that they used to prey on, sharing their somewhat scathing opinions on said prey. He was pleased to find a kindred spirit, really. Even if she seemed to have her head floating in the clouds.

The others… well, he'd taken his measure of them, even while they did the same to him. The Warden had described his companions as a menagerie; after looking at them, Zevran thought that 'circus' might be a better description.

He'd met Alistair, the Grey Warden that had been trained as a templar. Physically, Zevran estimated him to be just over twenty years of age. Mentally and emotionally, he estimated half of that amount. Alistair was rather like an overgrown puppy; large, awkward, and silly, but with that kind of innocent goodness in the heart that was sweetly endearing. Almost sickeningly so, in fact.

Morrigan was simple to judge: she was cold, cruel, calculating, and viewed herself to be above everyone. He and her were rather similar in that respect, and while he approved of her strength of character, she was also a potential threat, and they'd both acknowledged that with a long, hard glare at each other. She didn't trust him, and the feeling was mutual. A shame, really, that they did not like each other very much. He would've seduced her otherwise. She was very beautiful, barbed tongue or no, and she had an air of wild lack of inhibition that just drew men like moths to a flame. Or perhaps that was the point? To draw men in, and then kill them once they'd served their purpose? He did notice that she often gave the Warden looks that could only be described as  hungry. He wasn't sure if she desired the Warden or had a taste for human flesh. He guessed that it was both.

Sten…he did not know what to make of Sten. Physically, he was like a mountain of granite. Tall, hard, and cold. He did not speak much, simply ate his food (with a good helping of cookies) and watched the camp with wary alertness. He gave the impression of being a perfect soldier, possessing a superbly conditioned and honed body, with a mind unviolated by thought. He seemed to treat the Warden with respect. Somewhat disdainful respect, but respect nonetheless.

Wynne had emerged from one of the tents moments before dinner was ready, and Zevran found that he liked her almost immediately. She was old, and a little frail, but her kind eyes possessed a steely will that her soft and gentle voice belied. She seemed to be a paragon of a kindly old grandmother; or so Alistair appeared to think, as he came to her and meekly asked her to mend his shirt. Watching her agree and at the same time tartly chastise the blond man, Zevran decided that her body may be weak, but her mind was sharper than his daggers. There was also an air of immense dignity about her that prickled at him for some reason; he wondered if he can poke through that serene little bubble she seemed to live in.

All in all, a rather odd set of companions to be following the Warden about.

Not that the Warden himself was any less strange, Zevran thought, his eyes studying the Warden drifting about the camp. He watched the Warden trade witty remarks with Alistair, face lit up in a wide grin. He watched the Warden quietly listening to Leliana, only speaking when prompted to but otherwise content to let the redhead spin her tales and stories. He watched the Warden speaking seriously to Sten, the deep voice both hard with command and gentle with respect. He watched the Warden carefully maneuver his way around Morrigan's barbs and prickliness, at one point actually making the witch laugh out loud. He watched as the Warden approached Wynne with consideration and care, softly enquiring the older woman about her comfort and obediently listening to her when she slid into her lectures.

So many faces, so many approaches…but which was real and which was not?  Zevran wondered as he sat alone in a quiet spot in the camp, carefully checking his dagger and sword for nicks and dents in the blades.

There was a crunch as heavy boots stepped on gravel. Looking up, he saw the Warden approaching, a slight frown on the face. The frown smoothed away when those eyes caught Zevran's, and that toothy grin showed up again.

"Still here?" The deep voice was amused, almost taunting.

Zevran smirked back as he laid his weapons aside. "Ah, but it will take more than mere interrogation to drive me away from your company, Warden."

"After seeing just how full of crazy we are? I'm impressed. Death by Crows seems to be a rather good deterrent for desertion."

Zevran scoffed. "You truly do not know the Crows, then. Believe me when I say that joining a group of lunatics is much, much more desirable than letting myself being caught by the Crows.  Especially if it's for deserting  them. " He smiled at the Warden. "But if you are here to simply talk about the Crows, I'm afraid I won't provide much information. I may be destined for a slow, painful death, but spilling secrets will most likely mean a slower, much more painful death."

"I see." The eyes narrowed, although the grin was still there. It gave the Warden a rather sinister look, and Zevran had to work to not shudder at that strangely predatory expression. "Fortunately for you, I'm not here to ask about the Crows." The grin widened. " Yet. " Abruptly, the human sobered, and reached down to untie a leather pouch that he had attached to his belt. "I do have something to give you, however."

"Oh? This should be good." Zevran studied the pouch. It was plain, made with leather and closed with a drawstring, and judging from the way it hung, it contained something of significant weight. "May I ask what exactly are you giving me?"

"Finding out by yourself is part of the surprise, isn't it?" the Warden muttered, sounding distracted as his fingers worked to untie the pouch from his belt. "It's nothing deadly or poisonous or anything of the sort, however… blasted knots won't—ah, there we go." A triumphant smile lit his face as he pulled the pouch away from his belt, then with a flashy little flick of his wrist, he swing it up into the air and caught it in his hand, then he held the pouch out. "Here. Take it."

Zevran looked at the pouch. Whatever was inside was about as long as one-and-half the width of the Warden's palm—which is pretty big, by itself. Big enough to more or less cup nearly half of Zevran's head, certainly, and with long, elegant fingers—

"Zevran?"

"Hmm?" Zevran glanced up, and found the Warden giving him a quizzical look, a frown just beginning to draw the brows together.

He hid his distraction— fingers? Really, Zevran, are you quite sure you haven't ingested something illicit?— by giving the Warden a smirk. "First you give me new gloves, and now this? Why, Warden, one might think that you're trying to woo me."

The Warden's puzzled expression turned into a scowl, and his eyes turned into glinting slits.

"Now, now, no need to scold me; you  know  I am just jesting with you." Chuckling, one hand raised in a conciliatory gesture, Zevran reached out with his free hand and, grasping the drawstrings, pulled the pouch from the Warden's palm.

And very nearly dropped the whole thing.

For something so small, it was remarkably heavy. "Oh-ho, what's this?" Fully curious now, he opened the drawstrings, then tipped the pouch over his hand… and gasped as a bar of gold slid into his waiting palm.

"Surprise," the Warden murmured, sounding amused.

Zevran stared at it, his mouth suddenly dry. Not just a gold-colored bar, he dimly realized. Pure gold, if the weight and the color of it were any indication. If it was pure gold, the bar in his hand was worth a prince's ransom. Certainly more gold than he had ever laid his eyes on.

The sound of a throat clearing drew his eyes, rather reluctantly, from the brilliant gold back to the Warden's accessing gaze.

The human's lips were curved in a pleased-looking smile. "I take from that goggle-eyed look on your face that you like it?"

Like it? 'Delighted' did not even come close to how he felt at the thought of owning such a treasure. He turned it in his hands, studying how the distant firelight glinted off the shiny surface, and then it occurred to him  who exactly had given him this.

His eyes narrowed. "Correct me if I am wrong, but you do not usually give bullion out to your companions, no?"

"I don't," came the simple reply.

His eyes narrowed further. "Why have you given me this, then?"

The Warden didn't reply immediately; he frowned thoughtfully, scratching his chin in an absent manner. "I can't help but notice your substandard equipment—hence all the hassle of getting replacements—and after that I wondered what  exactly have the Crows been paying you. From your previous state, it rather looks like pittance, which is odd considering how much the Crows are reputed to charge, if what Leliana said was any indication. Since you're with me, I highly doubt they're paying you any longer. As I have need of an extra killer in my menagerie, I've decided that I shall be the one paying you, instead. Given the circumstances, I do not have to give anything to your… what, superiors? That means you're directly getting whatever fees are owed to you."

Zevran blinked. The Warden  can't be  serious. Did he even know what sort of target would warrant this much gold? Except the Warden looked perfectly serious, his expression ernest.

Zevran stared at the gold bar, so very tempted to take it as it was offered, but some semblance of professional honor made him frown and thrust the bar back at the Warden. "No. This is too much, I can't take this."

"I insist."

"Warden—"

"I said,  I insist. " The Warden gave him a level stare that froze Zevran's tongue, and any protests that might have formed on it. "Now, if you would hold your tongue, and listen to me for a moment…"

The Warden straightened, folding his hands behind his back, and looked at Zevran with an arrogantly imperious expression haughty enough to rival a king. "Quite aside from the fact that I am paying you for your professional skills, there is also the matter of the oath you have sworn to me."

His oath? What has his oath got to do with anything?

"If I remember correctly…' I hereby pledge my oath of loyalty to you, until such a time as you choose to release me from it. I am your man, without reservation…this I swear. '" The Warden looked at Zevran. "That was what you said, am I right?"

Word for word, complete with an Antivan accent. Zevran didn't know if he should be amazed at the Warden's memory… or be worried about the very same thing. "You have a mind like a steel trap, Warden."

"Why, thank you, how very kind of you to say so." The Warden smiled, and the brilliance of that smile made Zevran's heart flip. Mother of Mercy, if the Warden actually smiled like that more often, Zevran would be in very, very deep trouble very, very soon. "Judging from that compliment, though, I was right with the oath. So, you have effectively sworn in my service, since you are 'my' man, without reservation, correct?"

"I… yes, but—"

"Therefore," the Warden said, completely ignoring Zevran's words, "I am bound, by your oath  and my own code of honor, to treat you as one who has sworn into my service… which means I will give you the proper wages, as befits your skills, both enough to sufficiently cover your basic expenses  and enough comforts to ensure a pleasant living. And in case should some unfortunate accident happens to me, such as death or disease or—Maker forbid—I completely lose the use of my faculties, I am also granting you a modest bonus to at least enable you to survive for a few months until you find another employer… or protector, in this case," the Warden added with a chuckle. "Since I could die any day now from a foul darkspawn blade, I'm giving you that bonus in advance."

"But—"

"If that thought makes you feel uncomfortable," the Warden went on merrily, "you can consider this a gift. A token, if you will, from a person who would like to be on friendly terms with the people who he is travelling with and has to rely on in fights to the death."

Zevran shook his head. "I can't—"

"Or I can put it this way." The toothy grin showed up again. "If you refuse the gift, you're challenging my duty as your employer and my obligation as your master, which would considerably offend my honor. You would also be refusing a token that has been freely given to you as an offer of friendship, which would offend my pride. To put that in perspective for you..." The grin sharpened, growing a dangerous edge that made  every survival instinct in Zevran yell at him to run and hide.

The Warden took a slow, deliberate step closer to Zevran. His mind screamed at him to back away, but there was  something in the Warden's gaze (Command? Madness? Pure fury?) that turned his knees to jelly and he simply stood, rooted, to the ground, as the Warden walked—prowled—towards him.

"Should you offend my honor…"

Step.

"…I'll have you flogged to the bone."

Step.

"Should you offend my pride…"

Step.

"…I'll hack your limbs off…and force you to eat them."

Step.

The Warden was barely a foot away from Zevran now, enough that Zevran had to crane his head back to look at the Warden, and he could feel the heat of the Warden's body washing over his.

"Should you decide to go ahead and offend me on  both counts—" The Warden suddenly leaned forward, until his hair tickled Zevran's cheek, and his mouth was right next to a pointed ear. "I will  flay you  alive ."

His voice had lowered into something barely above a whisper, his hot breath ghosting over Zevran's suddenly cold skin.

"Have I made my point sufficiently clear,  assassin? "

Zevran stared at a point beyond the Warden's shoulder. He dared not move. Dared not  breathe . The Warden was a dangerous predator that had proverbially backed him into a corner from which he cannot escape and now had a maw of sharp teeth hanging above his vulnerable throat.

He was so  hard it actually hurt.

"Zevran?"

The softly growled sound made him start, and he shook off enough of the lustful haze that had gripped him, enough that he remembered what the Warden's previous question was. He sucked in a breath to his too-tight throat—a big mistake. It only brought the Warden's scent into his nose, of earth and soil and salt and something spicy that he couldn't put a name to—and then he closed his eyes, swallowed, and spoke: "Yes, Warden." His voice sounded hoarse to his own ears. "Clear as a mountain stream."

He almost  felt rather than saw the Warden's smile, and then the Warden was suddenly  gone , had stepped away from him and was several feet away before Zevran could haul in another breath. Damn the human, for someone his size he was  fast.

"Do we have an agreement, then?" The edge was gone, but the smile still held too many teeth. "You'll accept whatever gift I choose to give you?"

After what you just said, you expect me to disagree? Zevran hauled that thought back, forcing his mouth into a casual smile. "We have an agreement."

"Good!" the Warden said cheerfully. "I believe we will get along just fine, then."

"Mm, yes, I believe we will," Zevran drawled with a casualness he didn't feel. "Although in the future, perhaps it would be more beneficial for 'getting along' that our conversations would involve less threats of bodily harm upon my person, no?"

The Warden stared at him, eyebrows raised, and then he laughed, a genuinely amused sound. "You'll do fine," he said, eyes twinkling. "Oh, by the by, if you every breath a word about what kind of arrangement we have regarding gifts to  anyone outside the two of us, I'll fervently deny it." One of those twinkling eyes closed in a slow, deliberate wink. "Just so things are clear."

Before Zevran could say anything to that, the Warden turned and strolled away, whistling a jaunty little tune.

He watched the Warden, his eyes following the tall form until it turned around a tent and disappeared from sight. Those eyes then flicked around, making sure that there was no one else around, no one else who can see him…

His knees, held up only by force of will, gave away, and he sank to the ground on his knees, then dropped forward, bracing himself on his arms.

He spent a long moment just braced on all fours, his chest heaving, his heart pounding, his head spinning, until he felt his breath and pulse slowing, and his head felt like it belonged on his shoulders again.

"Warden, you are a conniving, arrogant, and manipulative  son of a bitch ." The words, whispered to himself, held equal parts anger and admiration. They also rather handily drove away the remaining haze that clouded his head.

Feeling a little more like himself again, he sat back on his haunches. His body ached, his loins heavy and warm, but it was now mostly a physical reaction, one he pushed aside with practiced ease to focus his thoughts properly. He had never felt such overwhelming desire, an arousal so overwhelming that it completely obliterated his ability to think. Well, aside from thinking about satisfying that desire in the quickest, most pleasurable way possible, but that was beside the point.

Zevran considered himself a master of seduction, and one of the hallmarks of such a master was that even in the heat of passion, a master retains the clarity of thought he had before indulging in such earthly pleasures, as well as having a controlled restraint over his own desires. He usually held true to that standard… until now.

That clarity of thought had flown out the window the moment the Warden had smiled, and that restraint had snapped the moment the sharp-edge grin had emerged. Only fear of the Warden's reaction had kept him from jumping onto the human to ravish him there and then.

The intensity of his desire stunned him. Terrified him. He never reacted in such a way to anyone he had met, not even when he was an adolescent who only discovered what sex was.

But why now? And why the Warden?

He thought on that for a bit, and then sighed in resignation. He'd always been fascinated by the dangerous, the deadly. The Warden was definitely that, a dangerous predator when roused. Fereldens, he suddenly remembered, considered themselves descendants of wolves (or was it werewolves?), particularly the nobility. It was something he had always dismissed as a silly fancy dreamed up by the nobles to further impose their own rank.

The Warden, with his toothy— wolf-like —grin, sharply observant gaze and dangerous aura... yes, Zevran could very well imagine him as having kinship with wolves. Or as an actual wolf, wearing the urbane, civil mask of a human noble. A predator drifting amongst sheep, so to speak. That teeth-baring grin might very well be a way of baring of his true nature.

And now Zevran was having fanciful thoughts. Perhaps he really should have checked his food for any odd condiments.

But laying the question of the Warden's ancestry aside—wolf or no—what about this desire for the human? Should he ignore it?

He considered that, grimaced. No, not likely, not when it can ride him as strongly as this. That path would only drive him mad, he was sure of it. Which meant he had to act on that desire. Which meant he had to somehow ensnare the Warden and get the human to have sex with him. Long, long bouts of sweaty sex, until he had satisfied his body's urges, and put that distraction out of his mind once and for all.

Ah, well. There was little harm in making such overtures. Unless the Warden decided to be violent about it, in which case Zevran would very likely meet a  very messy end. He didn’t think the Warden would react  quite that badly, however – something about the Warden’s arrogance suggested a relatively high tolerance for strangeness. At worst, the Warden would simply turn him down. But if Zevran were lucky... he would be able to find out if that quietly whispered rumor of Grey Warden stamina was indeed based on truth.

The Warden had thus far succeeded in keeping him completely unnerved. Perhaps it was time for him to do the same to the Warden. And Zevran was nothing if not someone who enjoyed the idea of getting revenge.

Smirking at the thought, his decision made, he shifted, and then remembered… his gaze dropped to his hand, fingers still gripping the gold bar lightly.

The Warden's words returned to him.  Bound by your oath and my own code of honor.

Well, he recognized honor, even if his life as a Crow meant he had done more than his fair share of unsavory things. The Warden had not simply thrown out the word casually: "honor" clearly meant something to him. Zevran could see it in the Warden's eyes, hear it in his voice. That code of honor was something drilled into him from a very young age, or even something inborn, very much part of what made the core of the Warden's soul.

He frowned at the gold bar—the gift—and then with a resigned sigh, reached for its pouch (dropped on the ground some time ago; when had he dropped it?) and stuffed it back in, letting the brilliant metal disappear into the dark depths of the leather. He would keep it as safe as he could, store it away with his belongings, as a safeguard for any future difficulties.

The Warden was right; the human could die any day, and Zevran might not have someone to hide behind when the Crows caught up to him.

That decided, he got to his feet, picking up his forgotten dagger and blade, while his mind carefully planned the gentle seduction of the Grey Warden.

~to be continued~


	6. Chapter  6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Note to readers:** Chapters 3 to 30 in the original posting of this story at Fanfiction.net (which can be read here: [[link]](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6031831/1/Of_Whoresons_and_Nobles)) have _not_ been beta'ed.
> 
> Because of the previous lack of beta, I will be re-editing the above chapters before I post them in AO3. Therefore, the AO3 version of _Of Whoresons and Nobles_ will have some differences from the FFN version. Most of these will be minor rewrites and additional content, but the overall storyline and major plot points will be the same.
> 
>  **Acknowledgement:** _Many thanks to my beta,_ _ **[Sia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sia/pseuds/Sia)**_ _. Your advice and patience are much appreciated._
> 
> _She also writes a lovely Zevran fic, "[The Rescue](http://archiveofourown.org/works/434773)", and Zevran lovers should check it out._

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 6_

* * *

Zevran woke in stages.

His mind was the first to stir; it circled, slowly, his thoughts moving as if drifting through molasses, reminding him of where he was (on a bedroll, likely in the camp) and what had happened (a magical pull that yanked him off his feet and sent him crashing on his back at the foot of a monster, a massive shield smashing into him, breath-stealing pain before darkness swallowed him whole). His head began to ache, a steady drumbeat that made his eyes throb, and his ears whined with a teeth-grating buzzing sound. There were other aches – shoulder, and especially ribs – and his throat was coated with something thick and smoky and earthy. _Elfroot_ , his mind supplied. He lay quietly, mentally assessing his condition. Every part of his body seemed to hurt, but it wasn't the sharp agony that had sent him reeling before he passed out. Reasonably good, he finally decided.

"Are you awake, Zevran?"

The voice drifted to him, sounding like it was spoken through layers of wool. It was hard to make out, especially with the buzzing sound that kept hovering in his ears. But he recognized that haughty, amused voice, with its unmistakably patrician accent. He opened his eyes, and glared at a familiar wolf's grin. "Remind me again why I've decided to follow you," he gritted.

"You wanted to get out of the Crows' reach, so you swore an oath to me," the Warden said, and Zevran really, _really_ wanted to get up and punch that grin off that insufferably handsome, _pain-free_ face, but the unrelenting ache in his shoulder warned him that doing that would not go well for him. He remembered hearing the blistering lecture Wynne had given to Alistair for scratching at still-healing wounds, and Zevran had vowed to never be on the receiving end of Wynne's irritation. For a soft-spoken woman, the mage had a tongue sharper than any Antivan fishwife's knives.

Sitting up, he decided, might not result in death or Wynne's scolding, and he carefully lifted his body off the bedroll. His head spun a little, and his muscles protested, but otherwise nothing disastrous happened, and he was able to push himself up without incident. He felt the Warden's eyes on him, but there was no attempt to help him sit up, and Zevran felt absurdly grateful for that; he disliked being coddled. "Are you here to make fun of me?" he asked.

"Make fun of you? My backstabbing little comrade? I'm not as suicidal as that, thank you very much." The Warden ended that with a very patronizing pat on Zevran's head.

Sometimes Zevran thought the Warden's sense of humor was a bit warped. "Continue doing that and I might actually reconsider killing you."

The Warden laughed, but he did stop the patting. "Joking aside, I came to see if you were all right. That revenant hurt you pretty badly, you know."

"I have been in worse situations. And your mage is a gifted healer. I will be fine soon enough." Zevran ran a hand over the bruising on his torso, noted that the splotches of colour were the sickly yellow-green of healing, and vaguely recalled a sharp voice telling him to _lie down before you break something else_. "Although I do not know why she insisted on the bedrest."

The Warden raised an eyebrow at that. "If I may recall, Zevran, you were _coughing blood_ ," he said. "I believe she was being somewhat sensible when she insisted you lie down so you don't hurt yourself even more. And she's not _my_ mage; she came because she chose to do so."

 _That_ made Zevran raise an eyebrow. "After seeing your charming little party?"

"I think she joined _because_ of my charming little party. She probably took pity on me and decided to make sure my sanity remains somewhat intact. Is your hearing all right so far?"

"Hmm?" Now that the Warden mentioned it… "Mmm… yes, it seems to have gone away. You don't sound like you were speaking from underwater."

"No more deafness, and no more coughing of blood. Wynne will be pleased." The Warden smirked. "Still, I'm a little surprised that you're so fragile."

"If you wore less of that clumsy armor of yours, Warden, you'd realize just how painful it is to get a shield in the belly," Zevran snapped. "And in case you have forgotten, it was _you_ who insisted on disturbing the resting places of the dead."

"I sincerely apologize for putting you through such trials." The Warden's words _sounded_ heartfelt; the wolfish grin made that apology moot. "You must admit, however, that the armor we've collected was really worth all that pain."

"Since most of that pain was mine, and I most likely would never be wearing that suit of armor, I find myself hard-pressed to feel the same. That suit of armor better be some sort of valuable treasure."

"Oh, _yes_." The Warden's grin widened. "Finest silverite, lyrium-enhanced, and of Tevinter make. Wynne was rather apprehensive since blood magic was used in its creation, but we agreed the enchantments will be useful."

"Will you be wearing it?"

"Who, me?" The Warden frowned, and then shook his head. "No… I'll give it to Alistair, once he gets the strength to wear that suit without falling over from the weight. He'll need the protective enchantments more than I, since he's the one I usually throw into the thick of the fray. He's good with his shield, and he likes being the defender of all the good things in this world, so I'll let him get that attention he's seeking." The Warden smirked. "I'm more of a hack-and-slash kind of fighter, anyhow, and I really don't like the idea of taunting enemies to drag them on top of my head."

Zevran choked back a laugh. There was a backhanded compliment to Alistair in what the Warden said, but he couldn't be sure about it. "He _does_ rather enjoy being your shield, no?"

"And being second to me. Maker knows why, because I sure don't. He's the bloody senior Warden here, not me."

"Your age, perhaps?" Zevran shrugged. "Alistair seems rather young to be leading people around, or so I think." His throat felt dry; glancing around, he spotted the waterskin Wynne had left beside his bedroll, and reached for it.

The Warden watched him with narrowed eyes, the face masked in an inscrutable expression. "…and how old did you think I am, Zevran?" he eventually asked.

Zevran glanced at the Warden as he unplugged the waterskin. The Warden's skin was smooth and relatively unlined, true, but the Warden's bearing – a kind of jaded, world-weary attitude, as if he was cynically amused with what he'd seen of life – spoke of experience more than the face did. "I'm not quite sure, but maybe five years older than Alistair, I think."

The Warden was silent for a while as Zevran raised the waterskin to his lips and quenched his thirst. "I don't know if I should be pleased or horrified that you think so, since I'm only nineteen this year."

Zevran had been about to swallow a mouthful of water when the Warden said that—as it was, he gasped, the water went down the wrong way, and he choked.

The Warden said nothing, just clapped Zevran's back as the elf coughed. It took a while before Zevran gained enough breath to gasp out: " _Nineteen?_ "

The slightest of smiles curved the Warden's lips. "Mm-hmm… you look a little green. Perhaps you should lie down?"

"I am all right, thank you. But _nineteen?_ Are you pulling my leg?"

"Yes, and no, in that order. Why? Is the idea of working for someone barely out of adolescence too much for you?" There was amusement in the Warden's voice, but the sharpness in those eyes warned Zevran that saying the wrong thing might end up with him being forced to rest longer, and with a lot more pain.

"I… no. I am just surprised. You do not seem to be all that young." _In behavior, that is._ Now that Zevran actually thought about it, the Warden's face really was youthful, and the body… well, as deliciously powerful as it was, it did not quite have the width of a full-grown man, more long-limbed than thick-set.

"I'll take that as a compliment." The Warden paused. "Well, I hope it is. It's rather disheartening to be thought of as being half a decade older than Alistair."

"It is," Zevran said. He was being honest. The Warden was more than mature enough, age or no, and he had a good head on his shoulders. Zevran would rather have someone like the Warden be his leader, rather than someone as childish as Alistair can be sometimes.

The age put some reservations on Zevran's plans, however. He had planned to seduce the Warden, and had assumed... well, he had assumed that the Warden was at least experienced enough in sexual matters. Now he wasn't quite sure where the Warden stood in that arena.

Zevran inwardly winced. For all he knew, the Warden was a skittish virgin, and Zevran had a self-imposed rule of _not_ seducing skittish virgins—unless they were one of his marks, since he'd be killing them anyhow. He never kept a lover more than a few nights, and he had heard enough tales from the whores who had raised him of how virgins become foolishly attached to their first lovers to be wary of having someone that clingy fix their attentions on him.

"What is your opinion of the Dalish?"

The sudden question startled him out of his thoughts. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Your opinion, of the Dalish." The Warden smiled wryly. "I heard you mention that your mother was Dalish back when we were in their camp. You don't seem to really identify yourself as one, though."

Zevran smiled, and seized on the change of topic. It was better than thinking about just how to seduce the Warden, especially with the Warden sitting right next to him. "I know little enough of the Dalish other than the fact that my mother was one. Or so I was told. She had fallen in love with an elven woodcutter and accompanied him back to the city, leaving her clan behind for good. And there, of course, the woodcutter died of some filthy disease and my mother was forced into prostitution to pay off his debts. Oldest tale in the book," he said with a smirk.

The Warden had started listening with his usual attentive expression. By the end of Zevran's little tale, however, there was an appalled look on the Wardem's face. "Zevran, that's horrible!" he exclaimed.

Zevran scoffed. Apparently the Warden was just as sheltered as any other blue-blood. "Is it?" he said, trying not to sound bitter. "It seemed normal enough a tale growing up, no different than the other elven boys in the whorehouse. I didn't know my mother, either, of course. She died giving birth to me. My first victim, as it were." A familiar wave of sadness crashed over him; as he had learned long ago, he shrugged it off, knowing the futility of dwelling on things long past. Forcing his voice to stay light, he went on: "We were all raised communally by the whores. It was a happy enough existence, ignoring the occasional beating,"— _and the starving, being spat on by patrons, being forced to service said patrons, the fear of being abandoned and left to die, always the fear—_ "until I was eventually I was sold to the Crows. I bought a good price, or so I hear."

The Warden, to Zevran's amusement, looked like a foreigner who'd ate _criadillas_ for the first time, enjoyed the meal, and then was told where they came from. And then the worst possible thing showed up in the Warden's eyes. _Pity._ "I'm so sorry for you, Zevran."

"That's very kind of you to say, but it is not necessary." _Even if I appreciate the sentiment… and stop looking at me like that._ "It could have been much worse." He smiled grimly. "Shall I tell you about the whorehouse boys who did not fetch a decent price with the Crows?" His smile took on a cynical edge. "Surely your life has not been so idyllic? People like you and I are not the product of happy lives of contentment, after all."

The Warden blinked, and… Zevran wasn't sure what happened. The Warden's face suddenly went _blank,_ and even the sharp eyes lost their light. Something else swirled within them, though. Horror, grief, and something dark and terrifying that it took a stunned moment before Zevran could name it: _rage_.

And then the Warden blinked again, and the… whatever it was… vanished from his expression. With a wry smile and a shrug, the Warden replied Zevran's question with: "You can say _that_ again."

 _Is that really all you have to say, my Warden?_ Zevran was tempted to push the Warden on that odd expression, but he was willing to bet his gold bar that the Warden would simply laugh and blithely dismiss his questioning.

He was also sincerely afraid of what he might unleash should he decide to poke at the Warden's mask.

A disturbing thought. But ultimately, a thought for later. With a sigh, he mentally shook off and stored the thought away, and then drew the Warden's attention back to the original topic. "My original point is that my mother's Dalish nature was always a point of fascination for me. Through all the years of my Crow training, the one thing of my mother's that I possessed was a pair of gloves. They were of Dalish make, I knew that much, and beautiful." In his mind's eye he could see them, their fine embroidery of delicate leaves and flowers decorating the butter-soft leather, the scent of crushed greens still strong even though they'd been out of a forest for so many years. "I had to keep them hidden, of course, as we were not allowed such things. Eventually they were discovered, of course—"

_Please, no! They're my mother's, please—_

_Your mother is a whore and long dead, boy, and you have no need of these!_

_No, I beg you, please I—_

_Silence, elf! A worthless little brat like you has no use for trash such as sentiment. You! Burn these, this boy needs to learn that a Crow cannot keep memories and sentiment._

_No!_

"—and I never saw them again."

The hurt and the anger were old friends. He shut his eyes, ignored the tears that threatened to well over. Time had faded the memories, but they would remain. Would likely always remain, like the ink that curled over his skin, or the little scars that marred it.

_And I'm being a sentimental fool again. The Crow masters were right, at least, in that. Sentiment is something a Crow does not need._

Feeling a little bit more in control, he opened his eyes and looked at the Warden. There was—thank the Maker—no pity this time, but there was a sadness there that somehow made Zevran feel even _worse_ than being pitied.

"Has there been no joy in your life at all?"

The quiet question made Zevran inwardly laugh. "Oh, there has been plenty. To tell the truth, it was because I expected nothing more. Still, even I eventually thought that it would be better for me if I ran off to join the famous Dalish when one of their clans drew near Antivan city." _The famous Dalish with their proudly defiant woodland ways, facing the threat of hostile humans with nothing but bravery and bows, and their fruitless search for what remained of the elven culture and their lost immortality, both long faded away in the mists of time._ "Naturally the reality did not live up at all to the fantasies I had constructed as a boy, staring at those gloves. But such is life."

The Warden had been silent while he spoke; curious at that, Zevran looked at the Warden…and found the Warden had frowned, quite obviously thinking hard about something.

"… Wait here."

And before Zevran could reply, the Warden had got up and was quickly moving away. Not quite running, but certainly almost jogging.

"I'm not going anywhere," Zevran muttered under his breath, wondering what _exactly_ the Warden was up to this time.

Considering that this was the same man that had, within an entire day, wandered around aimlessly in a dangerously haunted forest simply to "explore"; had attempted to intimidate—and succeeded!—a group of angry werewolves; spoke to a talking rhyming tree like it was the most normal thing in the world; disturbed graves (and several demonic spirits) to gain a part of an armor set that none of them could wear; played a "questioning" game with a mad hermit; attempted to pick the tree stump that was said hermit's home (thankfully Zevran was there, or the Warden might have been encountered a nasty poison), which made said hermit angry enough to summon demons; explored an elven ruin and going so far as to mimic an elven burial ritual _just to get another piece of the damned armor_ ; agreed to parley with the werewolves and their spirit guardian-goddess, and then agreed to bring the old keeper that had instructed them to kill the werewolves; explored more of the old ruins after that, and picked up strange glass vials which broke at his touch, summoning a vengeful spirit that nearly killed them (simply because "they have these odd little notes on their corpses—they're all connected in some way!"); found the old keeper waiting for them in the top level of the ruins and then persuading him to talk to the Lady-who-is-also-Witherfang; _forcing_ said keeper to end the curse he had apparently cast, dragging them into a fight where Zevran had his shoulder hurt by an angry _tree_ (Of all the most embarrassing enemies to face, he had been seriously injured by a _**tree**_ ); had ended the curse for good _and_ demanded reward from the werewolves; and then on their way back to camp the Warden gleefully disturbed _yet_ another grave and an already-injured Zevran was knocked out of the resulting fight __(There were vague memories between bouts of unconsciouness of being carried to camp on the Warden's back. Zevran really did not want to dwell on that humiliation).

All of it just so the Grey Wardens could get the support of a few wandering elves whose numbers were already decimated by the werewolf curse.

Now that he knew how old (or young) the Warden was, the seemingly-senseless behavior from before had now made a lot of sense. It still did not fully persuade Zevran from the notion that the Warden was completely, utterly _insane_.

And awesome. He can admit that. Only the Warden could have pulled something like this off and still live to tell the tale.

Awesome… but still, _insane_.

Zevran wondered if joining the Wardens really was the best idea.

He glanced at the waterskin he had still been holding on to somewhat absent-mindedly, then sighed and took another swig, wishing it was Antivan brandy. Something to drown sorrows in, at least.

The black thoughts that hovered over him were interrupted by the sound of two people crashing into each other ("Hey, watch it! You nearly made me drop the cheese!"; "Sorry, Alistair!") and then the Warden was suddenly back by his side, face slightly flushed and panting a little.

"Here."

A bundle of leather dropped into Zevran's lap. Startled, he eyed the bundle, and then looked at the Warden. "What is this?"

"Look at it." The Warden's eyes were strangely bright, and he... wasn't exactly _twitching_ , but he looked like he couldn't sit still. He looked… excited? Eager? Zevran suddenly had an image of a little puppy yapping and bouncing about, tail wagging so hard that its bottom was shaking with it.

 _I should get used to these sudden changes in mood, I suppose._ Mentally rolling his eyes, he picked up the bundle—only it wasn't a bundle, but a pair of _gloves._

"Gloves?" _I thought you gave me a set of them already!_ "You're giving me _gloves?_ What for?"

The Warden smiled. "They're _Dalish_ gloves. Like your mother's."

"I…" _Dalish_. He looked at the gloves properly. Saw the soft deerskin leather, decorated with unmistakably elven embroidery, cut thicker at the index and middle fingers, and its fur-lined insides. "Maker's breath, you're right. It _is_ like my mother's." He stared at them in wonder, his fingers running over the fine stitching. "The leather was less thick, and it had more embroidery… but these are very close. And quite handsome."

"You're welcome," the Warden said. There was that amused twinkle in his eyes again.

"Do I seem surprised? Perhaps I am." _That you would actually think of giving me one of these…_ He looked at the Warden, and he couldn't help the smile that curved his lips, or the sudden joyful warmth that filled him. "Still, I appreciate the fact that you even thought of me. No one has simply… given me a gift before." _Not without a lot of strings attached._ "Thank you."

The Warden was practically beaming now. Unbidden, that image of the puppy popped up again, this time rolling about the floor on its back and looking pleased with itself.

"Well, since that's done, I suppose I should leave you alone to get some rest." Clapping a hand on his knee, the Warden got to his feet. "Wynne will want to know how you're doing as well, whether you're in danger of dying and all that. Probably would tan my hide if I don't tell her soon. _Will_ tan my hide, if I don't let you rest. Suddenly Nan doesn't seem like such a terror anymore." There was a brief smile at that, and then the Warden abruptly sobered. "You should try and get some sleep. We'll be heading to Redcliffe next, and given my luck with the Tower and the Dalish, we'll have more fighting on our hands, since the Maker has a terrible sense of humour and seems to enjoy throwing all of these disasters on us, just so that we have something to do." The eyes narrowed. "I wonder if there's more treasure though… oh, well." With a shrug, he waved at Zevran and strolled off.

Zevran watched the Warden for a while, until the other man had stopped to speak with Leliana, before his gaze dropped back to the gloves.

Idly, he put them on, flexing his fingers, and marveled at the supple leather.

There was suddenly the sound of a woman's voice, lifted in song. He glanced at the campfire, saw that Leliana had moved to stand before the fire, and it was her singing. Her voice was a molten sound, and as it soared on a keening note with the ease of an eagle, and suddenly Zevran found his soul soaring with it, as she sang in elven words whose meaning he never knew but somehow resonated to the depths of his very being:

… _hahren na melana sahlin…_

… _emma ir abelas…_

… _souver'inan isala…hamin…_

… _vhenan him dor'felas…_

… _in uthenera na revas…_

A song, a dirge, filled with both deathly sorrow and lively joy. Strange, mournful, eerie song; haunting, heart-rending, ancient song.

He didn't know when he'd started to weep, but he tasted the salt in his mouth, and soon the tears blinded him as Leliana sang, her face agelessly serene as her voice rose and fell.

… _vir sulahn'nehn…_

… _vir dirthera…_

… _vir samahl la numin…_

… _vir 'lath sa'vunin'…_

… _vir sulahn'nehn…_

… _vir dirthera…_

… _vir samahl la numin…_

… _vir 'lath sa'vunin'…_

The last note drifted away, like a leaf floating down a gentle river, and with it Zevran found his sadness drifting away, washed away by the purity of her voice, leaving behind serene regret...and quiet acceptance.

He blinked as he stripped the gloves, and carefully wiped away the tears.

Sorrow. Regret. He had many of those in his life. Scars on his soul, more than the ones on his body.

_Has there been no joy in your life at all?_

Zevran had said that there were plenty; he did not tell the Warden just how empty they were, false joy that ultimately came from despair.

He had not felt joy for a long, long time…not until the Warden had smiled that brilliant smile and given him these gloves.

Insane. Awesome. Frighteningly young. Handsome. Honorable. And unexpectedly kind.

Zevran smiled as he carefully folded the gloves and laid them beside his pillow, where he could see them as he laid to sleep. The Warden was proving to be a bundle of surprises.

Maybe following him would prove to be a good choice after all.

_~to be continued~_


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Note to readers:** Chapters 3 to 30 in the original posting of this story at Fanfiction.net (which can be read here: [[link]](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6031831/1/Of_Whoresons_and_Nobles)) have _not_ been beta'ed.
> 
> Because of the previous lack of beta, I will be re-editing the above chapters before I post them in AO3. Therefore, the AO3 version of _Of Whoresons and Nobles_ will have some differences from the FFN version. Most of these will be minor rewrites and additional content, but the overall storyline and major plot points will be the same.
> 
> **Acknowledgement:** _Many thanks to my beta,_ _ **[Sia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sia/pseuds/Sia)**_ _. Your advice and patience are much appreciated._
> 
> _She also writes a lovely Zevran fic, "[The Rescue](http://archiveofourown.org/works/434773)", and Zevran lovers should check it out._

 

* * *

Of Whoresons and Nobles

Chapter 7

* * *

  
It occurred to Zevran, rather belatedly (and halfway through stabbing a shambling moaning corpse with a charming stench that reminded him of Antivan leather), that no one, not a single person, that he had met in his travels with the Warden so far had ever called the Warden by name.

Oh, he himself, the great Zevran Arainai, never called the Warden by name, but the Warden had not volunteered the name, and it was standard practice for Zevran, as a Crow, to address whichever client he served by title. Clients were supposed to be anonymous, to avoid arrest/death in the unfortunate case that a hired Crow should be caught and interrogated. Him knowing Loghain's name was not because of being directly supplied with said identity. The Hero of River Dane was simply that famous.

It took a while before he realized that none of the Warden's companions ever used his name. He might have excused it if they called all (two) of the Wardens that way, but Alistair was called, well, 'Alistair'. Or 'feather-brained fool' and its variations, if it was Morrigan speaking. The rest addressed the Warden as "Warden", or "Grey Warden" in more serious situations.

Even odder still, the Warden himself seemed to go out of his way to avoid being called by his name. Meeting Bann Teagan, for example: the Warden had smiled and acknowledged himself to be "Bryce's youngest" but didn't supply his own name (something which Zevran was quite sure that Teagan had forgotten). And when asked by Ser Perth, he had simply asked to be called Warden.

Zevran found that particular quirk to be…strange. Even for a noble. Even for a nineteen-year-old noble whose apparent reaction to facing a horde of moaning, screaming, shambling, raging undead was to sigh, comment "The unnatural are always so…bothersome", shrug, and then tear into the horde like a madman. Zevran was still pretty sure that last was an unshakable truth.

He highly doubted that the Warden was born and named "the Warden", however (unless this Bryce Cousland had an extremely odd sense of humor), and curiosity being one of Zevran's greater vices, the need to know who was the Warden burrowed into his mind and squirmed around the back of it like a fat, overfed maggot.

Still, the Warden had to have used his name at some point…which meant the Warden's more familiar companions might know the name. And who else more familiar than another Grey Warden?

As Lady Luck would have it, the Warden had, after more or less retaking Castle Redcliffe, immediately set off for the Circle, after rather vehemently refusing the blood mage Jowan's offer of getting rid of the demon possessing the child Connor ("Blood magic is absolutely out of the question. What happened at the Circle itself was more than proof enough of its dangers."); in doing so, he had only taken Wynne, Sten, and Leliana. The former to help him when he asked for the Circle's aid, the other two to provide support should they run across a darkspawn party.

(Privately Zevran thought that bringing Sten had something to do with a conversation the Warden had with the stoic giant a few nights ago, regarding cages and a sword.)

The Warden had left the rest of the party back in Castle Redcliffe to secure it. In his words: "I want all of you to keep an eye out for that creepy little bugger that holed himself up somewhere upstairs, and for the love of Andraste make sure he does not invite any more of the rotten rascals he seems to be so fond of. I will not be amused if I return here and find that all my hard work at preserving every single living creature in this village—yes, even that fat bastard from the tavern—had ended up becoming an unholy, ghoulish midnight banquet because of some uppity little demon's whimsy."

He had to admit, the Warden had a way with words. And a frighteningly fearless view of things that looked like they had crawled out of some sick bastard's nightmares.

But that meant he not only was out of the Warden's sharp gaze for a while, the mark that he had chosen for questioning was likewise away from the Warden's scrutiny.

Said mark was rather predictable at times, and so it was easy for Zevran to set up a time and location for the questioning. As the day had darkened to the twilight right before nightfall, he had simply went back into the kitchen-pantry they had passed by while breaking into the castle, and with practiced ease blended into the shadows, becoming all but invisible to the unwary and most of the wary. After that, he simply waited.

It did not take long before a familiar sandy-haired head peeked into the kitchen, followed by an armor-clad figure, which then (in an almost comical furtiveness) headed to a stack of hard cheeses.

Just because he could do it, he waited until said figure had his back turned towards him, and only then did he step out of the shadows. "Alistair."

"Gah!" Alistair jumped, and then whirled around, sword suddenly in hand and eyes wild. The startled fear in the widened eyes faded when he saw who had snuck up behind him, however, and was quickly replaced by exasperation. "Maker's breath. Don't do that, Zevran, I could have cut your head off."

"Given that it was I who startled you, you would be the one with his head cut off if I chose to do so. Honestly, Alistair, not paying attention to what's behind you in a hostile place?"

Alistair scowled. "One, I was paying attention, and since the only dangers here seem to be corpses, which have an unholy love of moaning, I’m sure they wouldn’t have startled me. Two, Morrigan says things have been quiet up there so I was unlikely to run into something nasty—well, except for rotten food but that's not the point—especially after the Warden had been so thorough with 'cleaning house'." The last two words had Alistair raising his hands and twitching his index and middle fingers for emphasis. "Three, what are you doing here? Have you followed me?"

Zevran smirked. "Actually, no, I wasn't following you. I was waiting here for you."

"…Right. Very creepy. And just why were you waiting?" The blond's eyes narrowed. "Wait…you're not here to assassinate me, now, are you? Isn't that what you assassin-types do, assassinate people?"

That little accusation made Zevran scoff. "I made an oath to our mutual friend, and I do honor my oaths, contrary to what you think. I simply came to ask a question, that is all."

Alistair was outright wary now. He studied Zevran for a long while before he slowly said: "What…sort of question?"

"Something regarding our Grey Warden." Zevran shrugged. "You have been his companion longer than any of us. I simply wish to know if you know the Warden's name."

"…yes."

When Alistair remained silent after that, Zevran raised his eyebrows. "And that name would be…?"

"Something I cannot tell you." Alistair sighed, running his fingers through his hair. "It's a bit of a long story, really…just…sit down, will you? I'm going to get some food."

Avidly curious, Zevran obligingly sat on a stool near the fire, while Alistair rummaged around and returned with a half-wheel of cheese and two loaves of bread, one of which he tossed to Zevran.

"So what's the story, hmm?" Zevran asked, as Alistair dragged another stool over.

"You know that Grey Wardens generally leave their past lives behind when they join the order, right?" At Zevran's nod, Alistair went on, in between munching on the food: "The Warden didn't like to talk about what his past was like before being recruited, and from what little he did talk about—and when I said 'little' I mean really little—I gathered the circumstances were...unpleasant. What I do know was that the Warden was a noble—which was obvious, with that accent and all—and from Highever, home of the Couslands, and that he—"

A sudden boot scrape alerted Zevran—his dagger was reflexively in hand, and he turned towards the direction of the sound. Alistair had heard—he'd similarly stiffened, and his hand was hovering over the hilt of his sword.

Then a tall human emerged from the shadows, looking tired and worn, but relieved.

"Bann Teagan!" Alistair exclaimed. "Aren't you supposed to be in the main hall?"

"I'd ask the same as you, if I had the strength," Teagan sighed. He was clutching a wine bottle, Zevran noticed, and it was yet to be opened. "But I am not needed there at the moment. The Warden just returned with some mages from the Circle. Right now they're making preparations for a mage to go into the fade."

Alistair blinked. "Oh? They're back? That was… quick."

"Apparently the Warden can be quite resourceful when he wishes to be." Sighing, Teagan found another stool and dragged it over to the fireside as well. "From what I gathered, the elder mage—her name was Wynne, if I remember—had collapsed—"

"Wynne? Oh, Maker." Alistair shot up to his feet, his face horrified. "Is she—"

Teagon waved Alistair back to the stool. "She's all right. I was sent to tell you that, actually; Warden's orders. He's watching her now, like a sheepdog guarding over an injured lamb. Anyway, it happened after a particularly rough encounter with a darkspawn raiding party, and out of concern for her health the Warden had somehow managed to steal a wagon and a horse. Cut the journey short, it did, so he came back faster than we expected. A good thing too, I was dreading…" Teagan's voice trailed off, and then he shuddered. "I wish this nightmare with Connor will be over quickly."

"We all do, lord Teagan," Zevran murmured, sympathizing with the haggard-looking noble. The handsome face was pale, except for the dark circles around the eyes—a shame to see such weariness on such a visage, so much that Zevran could see and trace the fine lines on Teagan's face. And they were lines drawn from laughter and joy; it made his current state all the more tragic.

"I can't help overhearing…" Teagan peered at them. "You were discussing about the younger Cousland?"

"We were," Alistair replied, holding out some cheese in offering—which Teagan decline with a slight shake of his head, and then he took a long swig from his bottle. "Zevran over here just wanted to know what the Warden's name was."

"Hm. Funny. I don't remember what that was, myself." Teagan frowned. "We were so used to calling him 'Wolf' that it more or less had become a name for him."

"Wolf?" Both Zevran and Alistair echoed in unison.

"Aye. Demon Wolf, the terror of Highever." Teagan smiled. "Wolf, he was called, for his wild ways and fearlessness in his boyhood—and he grew into a rightful terror as a man, and soon had 'Demon' added to the nickname."

"That sounds ominous," Alistair remarked. "He was a bad sort of person, then?"

"Bad? Oh, no. He was a Cousland to the core, which was precisely why he was called as such; fierce, brave, dedicated to his family, and proud of his heritage, with a sense of right and wrong so strong that he'd fight demons barehanded to bring justice—a commendable attitude, but not exactly the most diplomatic attitude to have." Teagan shrugged, taking another swig. "He was much younger than I and therefore moved in different circles, but from what I have heard—and there was plenty to be heard—Wolf generally mingled well, warm and friendly and just reckless enough to be fun without being an obvious danger. Fergus was already married and had a child—with the bloodline secure, Wolf had little to no burden to speak of, and he enjoyed all the privileges entitled to him courtesy of his breeding and wealth.

"But his very nature, so enamored of justice and honor, also clashed with the natures of some of the…err, less honorable peers, and he often ended up in duels—more often than not, he also won those duels. He was taller than most, with unholy strength and speed; he rode roughshod over all the poor bastards who had dared challenge him to a duel. It didn't take long before everyone learned not to cross the Demon Wolf. Some feared him, some hated him, most welcomed him, but all respected him—at least, amongst the men of the nobility."

What's this? Zevran's ears pricked, and Alistair's grin was definitely cynical as he drawled, "The ladies thought otherwise, huh?"

"Exactly so," Teagan said with a laugh. "Fearsome to the men, but the ladies thought him a dashing young rogue out of a romantic legend—and he played that advantage to the hilt."

"Who wouldn't? I certainly would," Zevran said, chuckling. "Any hot-blooded male would."

"You, Zevran, are a debauch and a libertine," Alistair retorted. "Of course you'd take that advantage."

"Too true," Zevran said with a melodramatic sigh. "So very few men have my charm, wit and good looks that they can hope to match me in debauchery."

Alistair stared at Zevran. "Why do I get the feeling that you just insulted me, somehow?"

"Insult you? Don't be ridiculous. I never mentioned your name, Alistair."

Alistair glared at him. "That is precisely why I feel I'm being insulted."

Zevran simply gave the blond a lazy smile and shrugged, not bothering with a reply.

Teagan had watched the bantering with interest, and then he politely coughed to draw their attention back. "Well, Wolf was certainly more than hot-blooded, and he was more arrogant than most. Rich, well-connected, handsome, and more than sufficiently glib to charm the skirts off any female that took his fancy: the worst sort of polite rake that any woman might encounter. It became something of a joke that, should the Wolf be roaming at a party, the men had better keep an eye on their women, for no female was safe from him and he'd steal them from under their noses before they could blink. Mostly handmaidens, but he was not above accepting a bored wife's invitation to her bed. Caused a massive scandal once, with some minor bann confronting him in public—said bann ended up soundly trounced in the duel that followed, of course. Wolf really was a demon when he had a weapon in his hands."

Abruptly Teagan's face grew somber. "Although to think that wild, carefree, larger-than-life hellion is now a part of the renowned Grey Wardens…well, after what happened with the Couslands, I'm simply glad he survived after all."

_Survived?_

Teagan was staring at the ground now, his face sad. "He and his brother are the only Couslands left. The rest of the family died at Highever."

Zevran felt his heart chill at the words. And from the look on Alistair's face, the other Warden felt as horrified as he was. "… Maker," Alistair breathed, looking sickly pale. "He… how?"

"Howe slaughtered almost all the main branch of the family at Castle Cousland, and Loghain…" His face twisted with anger. "He justified Howe's actions— _justified_ —because the Teyrn conspired with Orlais and was therefore a traitor to Ferelden. Teyrn Bryce Cousland, who fought with the rebels against Orlais at White River, a traitor?" He shook his head. "Howe was a murderer, and the true traitor. To think that he escaped justice... it makes me ill."

"Oh, Howe will soon pay for what he did, believe me."

The languid drawl made all three of them start, then turn towards the doorway. The Warden was leaning against it on one shoulder, arms crossed over his chest, and a small smile on his face.

A smile, Zevran thought, with a jolt of fear, that did not reach the cold depths of his eyes.

"Warden!" Teagan jumped to his feet. "Connor, is he—?"

"I would like to report that Morrigan's little journey to the Fade was successful and Connor has been freed from possession," the Warden said, his tone cheerful, and at odds with his cold, cold eyes.

"Thank the Maker." The relief that washed over Teagan was palpable. "I… I need to see him."

"Upstairs, I believe," the Warden said, jerking a thumb up at the ceiling. "With Lady Isolde in the Arl's room."

"I'll go there at once." Teagan walked towards the doorway (wobbling only a little, Zevran noted with amusement.) and, passing by the Warden, he clasped the taller man's shoulder. "I thank you, Warden. We have much to discuss, after. There is the matter of the Arl's health that still needs attention."

"I'll join you in a bit, Bann Teagan, and you are welcome." The Warden's eyes finally warmed. "Go see to Connor, I expect the boy misses you."

Teagan smiled back, nodded, and he vanished past the Warden's form.

Those keen eyes watched Teagan for a while, and then the Warden turned back to look at Zevran and Alistair.

Immediately the warmth leeched from his eyes and his expression, turning that handsome face into a cold, haughty mask. "If you two utter a single word of what Teagan has told you to the rest of our party, I'll personally have the both of you slaughtered and fed to the darkspawn."

With those words, the Warden turned on his heels and walked away.

A tense, somewhat fearful, somewhat awed silence descended in the room. After a moment, Alistair was the one who broke that silence, clearing his throat.

"I..ah, am going to check on Wynne. Just to make sure she isn't hurt."

And with that Alistair bolted out of the room, leaving Zevran alone.

In the ensuring quiet, with only the crackling fire for company, Zevran stared at the dancing flames.

So Alistair refused to give the Warden's name, and Teagan only knew him as 'Wolf'. Remembering the sharp grin and keen eyes, Zevran had to admit the nickname was appropriate for the Warden. His real name remained a mystery, but Teagan's words offered some very interesting insights into the Warden's past.

An image flashed in his mind, that of the Warden's expression when Zevran asked about his life: the blankness, and the storm of emotion that swirled in the Warden's eyes,

_Unpleasant_ , Alistair had said, regarding the Warden's past. Teagan had mentioned that the Warden's family had died, leaving the Warden and a "Fergus" as the only survivors. And the Warden's eyes, so very cold as he warned what would happen should Teagan's words started circulating.

Zevran's eyes narrowed. There were too many holes in his sketch of the Warden's past, but he was willing to bet that whatever happened in his past was so horrifying that the Warden was doing his utmost best to forget about it, so much he was deliberately refusing to acknowledge his own past. And from what Teagan had said, the most likely reason was that the Warden had very likely been nearby, or even had watched, as his own family perished.

He wasn't someone who bothered with sympathy. An assassin couldn't afford being sympathetic. But thinking about what the Warden had most likely gone through, Zevran found it hard to not feel bad for the young man.

A young man who apparently played hard, fast and loose with other women.

Zevran smiled at that. Well…it was a relief, sort of. He'd worried over what was the Warden's experience regarding sex, especially given the youth of his age—now he knew. He still had to tiptoe around him, since he still didn't know if the Warden accepted men as lovers, but seducing the Warden was not out of the question.

Or…he frowned as a notion occurred to him. What if he let the Warden do the actual seducing? Zevran simply had to express his interest in the human, a bit of flirting here and there, and after that let the Warden make the next move?

The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. If the Warden had indeed been primarily seducing women, such an approach would not be so different from what the human was used to. And should things not work out, it would be easy to forget such a thing and keep things civil between them, saving face for both of them.

"That's it, then," he said aloud. He'd play the passive role in this game. Not something he did often, since it was usually him who was the initiator in his liaisons, but he knew the rules well enough.

Mind made up, he strolled out of the kitchen, softly whistling to himself. They were likely looking for him by now; it would be best that he returned to the rest of the party. And if he was lucky, he would soon find a way to start the game between him and a certain Grey Warden.

_~to be continued~_


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not checked by beta. Any mistakes are my own.

* * *

Of Whoresons and Nobles

Chapter 8

* * *

  
For someone with otherwise good and honourable intentions, the Warden formerly known as "Wolf" was a thief and looter. Zevran had lost count of the number of times he or Leliana were called upon to pick at the locks of chests so the human could raid whatever treasures were hidden inside. Anything that was worth something and was not nailed down was fair game to the Warden, and whenever he thought he could get away with it he would cheerfully rob his targets blind. Since the Warden basically had no real source of income, Zevran supposed his magpie-like behaviour was excusable.

He also suspected the Warden simply liked to collect things; particularly things that were ancient, even legendary, and powerful in their own right. That insane hunt in the Brecilian Forest for the set of armor the Warden had taken to call the "Juggernaut" set was a case in point. The Warden also had a particular fondness of things with words on them—again, it was proved with the Warden's deliberate encounters with undead warriors to collect notes about "Black Vials". He knew the human kept a much worn and very thick leather-bound book full of notes and stories and other assorted pits of paper and parchment that the Warden had picked up and found interesting.

So when Zevran, who had wandered around the now-liberated Castle Redcliffe on a whim, came across the Warden in the castle's study, he wasn't particularly surprised to see the Warden poking around the bookshelves, flipping through the pages of dusty tomes.

"I do not know Ferelden customs very well," Zevran drawled as he walked into the room and halted in front of the desk, "but it is considered rather rude to be investigating a man's study without permission, no?"

"Hmm?" the Warden looked up, his eyes distant and distracted, before he noticed Zevran's presence by the desk. "Oh. Beg pardon, I didn't hear you coming in. And yes, it's rude, but Eamon is a bit preoccupied with being insensible at the moment. I doubt he'd be able to protest much."

The Warden went back to flicking through the pages. "Mm-hmm." Zevran sat on the edge of the desk, and for a while he simply watched as the Warden continued picking books seemingly out-of-random, looking through them, and then returning them back to their shelves as a frown slowly formed over his face.

The Warden really was good-looking, Zevran mused, even when frowning. It wasn't hard to imagine the Warden swanning his way through a typical nobles' gathering, smiling and laughing and flirting with women—and capturing them, if what Bann Teagan had said was true.

Speaking of which… "You have spoken with Bann Teagan?"

The Warden nodded, even as his eyes skimmed over a densely-written page. "I have, and I've spoken to the arlessa as well. She is of the opinion that only Andraste's ashes would cure the arl, so we have to search for some sort of legendary urn, in order to drag the arl out of whatever section of the Fade he'd wandered off into." Sighing, he put the book he was holding back in its spot on the shelves. "Unfortunately, what little information the books here have on Andraste's ashes are all allegory Chantry tales. It looks like we have to go to Denerim after all and pay a visit to this 'Brother Genitivi'." Walking back to the desk, the Warden began opening its drawers and riffling through papers. "I wonder if there's any…oh? What's this?"

The Warden had pulled out something from a drawer. Zevran caught the glint of silver. "Looks valuable."

Zevran got a scoff in reply to his remark. "Well, it probably was. Someone broke it some time ago and then glued it back together." The Warden let the item—a chain with an amulet—dangle from his fingers and held it up. "Maker, someone spent a lot of time fixing this. I can't imagine how many pieces there were when this amulet broke, look at all those cracks…" The Warden's voice trailed away, and he suddenly went very still. "…Andraste's flame."

Zevran stared at the Warden. The human's eyes had widened, and were now fixed on the amulet as if it was some gift from the Maker Himself. "Why? What's wrong with the amulet?"

"…nothing," the Warden breathed. He lapsed back into a moment of awestruck silence, and then he was smiling. "Maker's breath, Alistair is going to be delighted if he sees this." The joyful excitement in the Warden's eyes was familiar—it was the same sort of expression he had when he made a gift of gloves to Zevran.

"What is that amulet?"

"A memento. A memory." The Warden looked inordinately pleased. "Alistair mentioned he'd lost the only thing he had that once belonged to his mother—a silver amulet, engraved with the emblem of Andraste's flame. This—" The Warden lifted the chain, "—fits his description of that amulet perfectly."

"Oh." Zevran could sympathise; he knew how it felt to lose something that once belonged to the woman that birthed him. "You are going to give it to him?"

"Of course! I suspect the arl himself fixed it, since it's in his desk, and wanted to return it to Alistair, but since he's, err, indisposed at the moment…" Shrugging, the Warden slipped the amulet into the tunic. "Wouldn't hurt if I gave it to Alistair on his behalf. You haven't asked any questions."

The sudden change in topic caught Zevran off-balance. "What?"

"Questions. About whatever Teagan had told you." The Warden was giving him a too-sharp look. "I'd expected you to start asking about it by now."

Uh-oh. Zevran suddenly felt like he was walking in a bog, where the slightest misstep would drag him to a painful death. "How much have you heard?"

"A fair bit," came the cryptic reply. "Teagan was pretty spot-on with what he said, but then again, Wolf had never bothered with modesty." There was a flash of teeth. "And his peers never quite learned to keep their mouths shut."

"I see." Zevran watched the Warden. "So, should I be calling you 'Wolf', then?"

"Wolf? Who, me? I'm not Wolf." The Warden suddenly laughed, and there was a terrifying brittleness in that laugh, like the slightest push would shatter it—or the man that it came from. "Wolf, whoever he was, died at Castle Cousland in Highever, along with the Cousland name."

Zevran's eyes narrowed. "Then who is the man standing before me, then?"

The Warden shrugged. "I am but a Grey Warden, one of the last of Ferelden's order, and tasked to end this Blight before it destroys us all."

"I asked who, not what."

"It's the same." The Warden sighed, looking suddenly tired. "Look, Zevran, the people…Ferelden, they seek a symbol, an idol or a figurehead or even a bogeyman, someone or something they can follow, something that can lead them in a war that will be full of blood and death and suffering. And since fool King Cailan died and dragged most of the Grey Wardens with him, I am that symbol now, whether I like it or not. And I can't just _leave things be_." He looked pained as he said it. "I can't abandon everything and everyone. Ferelden needs the Grey Wardens, and I can't shirk that duty."

"And Alistair?"

The Warden was quiet for a long time, his eyes shadowed; unseeing, unclear, and impenetrable. "He has a different destiny from mine."

One that has something to do with half of his blood? Royal blood? Zevran had overheard that little conversation, Alistair turning to the Warden just as they approached Redcliffe and admitting rather shamefacedly that he was Maric's bastard. The Warden had smiled, laughed, teasing Alistair about being a "royal bastard" but Zevran saw the calculation hiding behind the smile, could see the new set of tactics growing in the Warden's mind.

Because the Warden was a thief and a looter, but above all of that he was a tactician. One with a disturbing investment in Ferelden politics, if Zevran was any judge. And Zevran had little doubt that whatever obscure plan the Warden was quietly weaving, Alistair's bloodline may very well come into play later. 

A quiet descended in the study, not an awkward one but there was a tenseness there, and Zevran suddenly very much aware of the Warden standing close, just the span of a small desk separating them, the handsome and too-young face looking far too old and too tired.

Zevran clenched his fists, resisting the strange urge to reach out, and smooth out the Warden's furrowed brow.  

The Warden shifted, leaned with one hip propped against the desk. He was watching Zevran, his face turning to an inscrutable mask of studied concentration. Zevran stared back, keeping his body relaxed and allowing the smallest of cocky smirks to curve his lips, while he quietly suppressed the instinct to twitch away from under that scrutiny. 

"Why did you want to leave the Crows, exactly?" the Warden asked, breaking the silence. 

Another change in topic? Zevran mentally frowned at that, but let it slide, since the question was a valid one. "Well, now, I imagine that's a very fair question. Being an assassin, after all, is a living at least as far as such things go." He smirked. "I was simply never given the opportunity to choose another way. So if that choice presents itself"—he lifted his shoulder in a half-shrug—"why should I not seize upon it?"

The Warden's face was attentive, listening, but Zevran caught the flash of understanding in the keen eyes. _Ah, Warden, do you feel the same, about being a Warden? Would you have chosen otherwise, if the choice presented itself to you?_ "But what would you rather do?" the Warden asked, curiosity evident in his voice.

Zevran thought about that, frowned as his mind drew a blank. "Now that you mention it, I'm not entirely certain." He saw the Warden raise an eyebrow at that, so he went on to explain: "I was but a boy of seven when I was purchased. For three sovereigns, I'm told. Which was a good price, considering I was all ribs and bone and didn't know the pommel of a dagger from the pointy end." _I was also an attractive boy, even with the gauntness of constant hunger, and despite my harsh living my skin was smooth and fine, my hair soft. The Crows chose me for beauty, not skill. Because beauty itself, that elusive ability to draw a person's eye, is already a weapon, and a dangerous one if wielded well._

He shook off the thought (it wasn't something he wanted to share, and it was also rather too depressing to talk about now) and went on speaking: "The Crows buy all their assassins that way. Buy them young, raise them to know nothing else but murder. And if you do poorly in your training, you die." And many died, far too many, but such was life that the constant risk of death and pain was better than being the son of a whore.

There it was again, that sad look in the Warden's eyes. "That sounds awful."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Zevran drawled, smiling without any real humor. "The Crows who are actually good enough to survive come to enjoy some of the benefits. In Antiva, being a Crow gets you respect. It gets you wealth. It gets you women…and men, or whatever it is you might fancy." Zevran knew a Crow who actually had a preference for sheep. That man was a bizarre creature. The fact that he was one of the less bizarre of the Crows truly proves just what sort of twisted depths the Crows indulge in. "But that does mean doing what is expected of you, always. And it means being expendable. It's a cage, if a gilded cage. Pretty. But confining." And so few Crows escape that cage; those who do usually end up dead from trying. The rest…they didn't want to. Or they didn't even know they could. The Crow masters were thorough in clipping the wings of the young ones who'd dare to fly beyond their control.

"I see." There was a brief pause. "…so what is it you fancy, exactly?" The Warden's tone was bland, and Zevran was very sure that the Warden asked that question with regards with how he wanted to live his life. But Zevran knew an opportunity when he saw one, and he let his mouth curve in a slow, sultry smirk. "I fancy many things. I fancy things that are beautiful and things that are strong." Things like your face, and your body. "I fancy things that are dangerous and exciting." Things like your intelligence, and your courage. "Would you be offended if I said I fancy you?"

The Warden's eyes widened, and for a very brief moment he looked as young as his age. Zevran merely crossed his arms, smiling, and waited for the Warden's reaction.

"…But I'm a man."

The surprised—stunned—voice startled a laugh out Zevran, but the Warden's shock was very real and clear in those widened eyes. And then he remembered what the Warden had been, a highborn noble who'd grown in Ferelden, which Zevran had always privately thought was a rather repressed kingdom.

"Oh…you are speaking seriously, aren't you? I do forget that this is not Antiva City." He smiled, a friendly and slightly self-depreciating smile, careful to not let any lecherous intent show. "We are…a little more open-minded about such things, where I hail from." He studied the Warden, noticed no disgust, but no interest either; not very encouraging. "Is this something that I should beg pardon for?"

The Warden blinked. His mouth opened, closed, opened again, and making him look like a landed fish. Then he blinked again, a slow one, long lashes fluttering over his eyes, and just as slowly he replied. "No, I just…was surprised." There was puzzlement, and confusion, but there was also a glint of (aha!) speculative interest in the human's eyes. A very small one, but it was there. Not the most obvious of hints, but the hint was there.

Zevran resisted the urge to jump up and whoop. Instead he smiled, and purred: "Pleasantly, I hope." Pleased at that (yes, progress!), Zevran was happy to return back to the original reason the Warden had asked about his 'fancies': "As for what I'll do in the future…presuming that there is one…I truly can't imagine. It might be interesting to go into business for myself, for a change. Far away from Antiva, of course. For now, naturally, I go where you go."

The Warden's eyebrows rose, very faintly, and the smile that curved those fascinating lips was equally faint. "I'm happy to have you along."

"And here I am, happy to be had," Zevran said, his tone mischievous. "Isn't it wonderful how things work out that way?"

The Warden chuckled, and then pushed away from the desk, straightening, stretching his arms over his head and the tunic lifts just slightly, exposing a hint of a flat belly that drew Zevran's eye and made his mouth water. Then the Warden dropped his arms and that teasing bit of skin was gone; Zevran bit back the urge to just reach over and lift that tunic again.

Or better yet, rip that tunic to shreds and have that hard body under his hands and mouth. He wanted to see if that naturally pale skin was as silky as it looked, wondered if it would bruise easily if he nipped a little too hard.

Zevran didn't really try very hard to keep the thoughts from his face. Judging from the wary look he was receiving, the lecherous thoughts in his head were very obvious indeed.

"Zevran?"

"Mmm?"

"Are you ogling me?"

"Mmm." Zevran's grin was splitting his face as he glanced up at the Warden. "Not ogling, exactly." He let his gaze drop, roving down and up the Warden's body, and then raised his gaze and pinned the human with an intent stare. "But staring at you luridly? Very much so."

The Warden's jaw dropped, his eyes growing to the size of saucers. Then his mouth shut, quickly enough that Zevran could hear the teeth click together, and then (wait—is that a blush on his face?) he whirled around and very quickly walked out of the study. Zevran watched the Warden's departure, saw that the human's ears were already charming shade of pink, and he laughed.

_~to be continued~_


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not checked by beta. Any mistakes are my own.

 

* * *

  _Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 9_

* * *

 

The Warden was avoiding him.

It wasn't very obvious, really, and it took a few days before Zevran realized that (he had to give the Warden credit for subtlety).

It had been a week (a whole  _week_ ) since that little encounter in Redcliffe, where Zevran had expressed his interest in the Warden. And since then…well…

The Warden's party, by nature of its size, simply had little to no privacy, and directly avoiding someone within the party would be painfully glaring. But somehow the Warden managed to maintain a semblance of teamwork and cooperation, yet remain distant from Zevran.

They were travelling to Orzammar, home of the dwarves. And the human never spared him a glance, never looked at him in the eye, while they were on the road. When the group gathered to eat, the human somehow remained aloof from him, looking at Zevran when the elf spoke but never commenting, never really participating.

In Orzammar itself, the Warden was kept busy as he tried to gain the support of the stout folk, running little errands that would secure the throne for the next King of Orzammar. The Warden kept small talk to a minimum, even with the others in their little party, so the rest thought he was simply being extremely focused on his errands. But Zevran saw that the Warden still spoke, even a little, to Leliana, even going so far to get a pet nug for her ("Oh! It's one of those subterranean bunny-pigs! Ohhh, look at him! Come here, you…" "Careful, he nips." "He's probably just hungry. Oooh, he's snuffling me! Snuffle, snuffle! Eek! Thank you so much. You've made my day."). He  _still_  kept asking Wynne if she was all right, to the point where the elder mage rather exasperatedly asked if the Warden would rather that she sit in a rocking chair with her knitting (he'd smiled sheepishly and stopped pestering her after that, but he still kept an eye on her). But with Zevran, the human only gave the elf aside glances and not a single word.

It became even  _more_ evident when they (at the behest of the Aeducan Prince) had to go to the Deep Roads, where there seemed to be darkspawn and spiders lurking in every turn of those maze-like tunnels. He and the Warden often ended up back to back, fending off the fiends they encountered, but the Warden never  _looked_  at him, and the only words he spared were in the form of curt commands and snapped orders.

The whole thing  _gnawed_  at him, set Zevran on edge. He was not used to being completely ignored to this extent, particularly by someone he was attracted to. He'd rather face rejection, rather than this  _neither-here-nor-there_  state—at least with rejection he knew where he stood, knew what do say and what to do. But the Warden's avoidance left him completely in the dark, with no idea what the Warden was thinking (and the Warden, damn the bastard, was already difficult to read at the best of times) and Zevran was not looking forward to similarly avoiding the Warden, especially since he—with every sense he possessed—became increasingly fixated on the human as the proverbial distance between them remained.

It took considerable restraint to not just drag the Warden to a dark corner somewhere and kiss the human senseless.

It annoyed him,  _irked_  him, and it showed in his fighting, his manner—he was curt to the others, just a few words shy of being outright rude, and whenever they were forced to battle he ripped into their enemies with a viciousness that even  _he_  never realized he was capable of.

Even the drunken dwarf warrior called Oghren, who'd known them for barely a few hours, asked him: "What sort of flea-ridden nug got into your pants?"

Zevran was tempted to snap that the problem was that a certain human was refusing to get into said pants, but that might actually cause the Warden to  _kill_  him and he was not really aiming for that.

So he gritted his teeth and tried his damnedest to ignore the Warden, from Caridin's Cross to the Dead Trenches to that encounter with the freakish Broodmother all the way to the Anvil of the Void, where they found the smith Branka and the Anvil's creator Caridin. He only spoke up when they were facing the Anvil, arguing that they should preserve the artifact for the war against the Blight, that the presence of golems might help turn the battle to their favor.

Then and only then did the Warden  _look_  at him, those sharp, too-knowing eyes watching him, studying him.

"The Anvil is an abomination; it must be destroyed."

With those words, the Warden turned away, dismissed him, and it was a minor thing but it  _hurt_ , damn it, and Zevran felt his anger boil as the human faced the Paragon Branka, and charged into the horde of golems that she had controlled, his blows shattering the creatures apart, and then with a decisive slash he decapitated the mad smith.

So Caridin made the crown for Orzammar's king, and plunged into the molten lava below them after the Warden destroyed the Anvil. They returned to Orzammar, crowned the Aeducan as the new King, gained the assurance of the dwarves in the war, and then they were leaving the stone city behind, walking down the mountain path back to where the rest of the party had camped out at the base of the Frostback Mountains.

Zevran kept silent as they trekked down, the Warden leading the way, his eyes on the ground and his thoughts on the best way to force a confrontation.

He was so focused on those thoughts, his eyes kept so determinedly down, that he didn't notice when the Warden abruptly halted, and since he was just a few feet behind the Warden, he ended up crashing, face-first, into a solid wall of metal plate and muscle.

He stumbled back, reeling, his forehead aching.

A hand—a gauntlet-clad hand—clenched about his arm, just above the elbow. Tightened into a vice.

Then a clipped voice—the Warden—spoke: "Wynne, can you show Oghren back to the camp and make sure he gets settled? I need to have a quick word with the elf—we'll catch up later."

_What?_

But the Warden was already walking away, dragging Zevran behind him, away from the path and between the trees, long legs eating up the ground at a ferocious pace. Zevran couldn't dig his heels in and resist, or even follow at a dignified pace—the Warden had the advantage of height and strength and all Zevran could do was stumble along or risk getting his arm ripped out of his shoulders.

And then the Warden halted, suddenly, again—only this time he also pulled Zevran around and shoved him forward. The momentum carried him several unsteady steps before he managed to firmly plant both feet on the ground.

"Care to tell me why have you been walking around with a stick up your arse while we were in the Deep Roads?"

The drawling voice was light, almost cheery—only Zevran could hear the fury that caused the voice to vibrate, ever so slightly, with a low growl.

Smiling, he turned and looked at the Warden. The human was standing, his feet spread apart and braced, arms crossed over his chest and giving Zevran a level, no-nonsense gaze.

Such an arrogant man, his Warden. It only angered him, made him want to reach out and tear off that face, rip it into pieces.

But since that would be incredibly childish—not to mention messy—Zevran simply grinned and placed one hand on his hips, letting the other arm swing easily by his side. "Is that so wrong, Warden?" he purred. "I think you have more things to worry about than what had crawled up my arse, yes?"

The little tweak worked—Zevran saw the flaring anger, quickly damped down, in the Warden's eyes. "You've been snippy and barely cooperative, and that's a bad thing for the entire party," the Warden said coolly. "Whatever problem you have—with the others or with me—spit it out now, and let's see if we can solve it before you actually end up dragging us into trouble."

_My problem is that you seem to think that I don't exist any longer!_

Zevran wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the Warden's question, and at his own mental response. Since when had being ignored been such a thorn to him? But there was a side of him, a side that resented the lack of attention, the lack that had made him feel like he was  _unwanted_.

"You should have kept the Anvil."

The Warden blinked, gave him an incredulous stare. " _That_  is what's troubling you?" he asked in disbelief. "You're angry because of the damned  _Anvil?_ "

 _No, but it's better than admitting how much I want you, want you to look at me, to acknowledge me, to show that you want me._  "Having golems fighting alongside us would be valuable to helping us secure victory against the darkspawn, no? Stout or not, the dwarves are weaker when they are alone than having such constructs supporting them."

"Such constructs also require that dwarves pay with their own lives," the Warden snapped. "And who gets to decide whose lives will be used as payment? In order to obtain or create something, something of equal value must be lost or destroyed. Magic alone cannot give golems life, or we'd have more of those things running around the countryside by now."

"Wouldn't the dwarves consider being made into an indestructible creature to defend their home an honor?" Zevran replied. "You saw that monument in Caridin's smithy, with the names of those who joined the golems."

"You're  _assuming_  that there will be volunteers." The Warden's face was pale with suppressed fury. "Not everyone would want to be a golem, not everyone would want to join the ranks of the defenders. You heard Caridin, what his king did to strengthen their legion of stone and steel: what happens if the king decides to  _force_  people to join?"

Zevran's eyes narrowed. "Being a golem is not so bad, is it? Immortal, powerful—"

"And  _without free will!_  All you'd be is a tool, a weapon, your mind controlled by whoever wields your control rod. The price is too high!"

"And what of the lives lost to the darkspawn?" Zevran retorted. "Would you rather have lives lost from the lack of a strong army, or lives lost to  _create_  a strong army?"

The Warden  _moved_ ; suddenly Zevran was lifted off the ground, and his back slammed into the bole of a tree. A plate-covered forearm was pressed into his neck, hard enough to pin but not enough to choke. The Warden's face was inches away from his, the human's lips bared back in a snarl.

"Do you know what you're saying?" the Warden hissed. "Do you know what you're  _asking?_ "

The arm pressed in, and Zevran could feel his throat tighten. He gagged, hands instinctively reaching up to claw at the metal-clad arm, and then glared back at the Warden. "I am merely…saying," he said, between gasps, "that using…the Anvil is a...pragmatic solution against a dangerous enemy."

The arm shifted, lifted Zevran off his feet—the toes of his boots barely scraped the ground, now. And those eyes bored into his, hot as the liquid fire beneath the Frostback Mountains, and the snarl that came from the human throat was fierce enough to scare a wolf. "No, Zevran. You're asking to  _play with the lives of men!_  And do you know what happened the last time we decided to get  _that_  arrogant? We ended up bringing the  _Blight_  on our heads!"

The Warden really had an impressive voice; an impressive  _roar_ , rather. Zevran's ears rang after that last sentence, shouted into his face, and the ensuring silence after that was almost painful.

The Warden was panting, still pale with anger but with two bright spots of color high on his cheeks, and the eyes looked just a little wild.

Zevran stared back, aware that the arm on his throat was pressing hard enough to make breathing very  _very_  difficult, and suddenly all too aware that he was in a secluded spot and pinned against a tree by a strong, powerful, domineering man who looked ready to rip into something and tear it apart.

Maker's breath, the thought was enough to make him hard. But since he doubted that the Warden would appreciate his reaction, he decided he should let the Warden know that he was starting to feel lightheaded from the lack of air.

He licked his too-dry lips, opened his mouth to say something—

The Warden's gaze dropped to his mouth.

Suddenly the arm fell away, and Zevran dropped back on his feet. He hauled in a much-needed breath, but then a pair of large strong hands had framed his head, and then the Warden bent his—and Zevran's mouth was caught by the Warden's in a heated kiss.

It was not a gentle one.

Hard. Ravenous. Zevran's mouth had been open; the Warden's tongue swept in, filled it and laid claim. Commanding, fiercely aggressive.

Zevran didn't even realize that he was already kissing back; his hands had risen to the Warden's head and tangled in the soft-looking hair, drawing the Warden closer. Once he did—well.  _Well._

He angled his head, slanted his mouth, and deepened the kiss, his tongue lashing out and curling over the other man's, and part of him purred when he heard the Warden groan softly.

And then he let his thoughts fly, focused on the explicit exchange of tongue and spit and heated breath, both of them wrestling for control, the fighter in him wanting to conquer, to dominate, even as the sensualist in him drowned and wallowed in the haze of edged desire and demanded more.

More of the hard body looming over him, more of the dangerous heat and sensation from the Warden, even as the sexual fire within him flared to life. And  _burned._

Hunger burst through, desire (both his and the Warden's) rolling over them in a hot wave and they both fed it, let it burn through them and consume them. Zevran  _yearned_  and  _wanted_  and he seized the raw hunger like it was a long lost friend and clung to it; just as he clung to the Warden, savoring every evocative sweep of the thick tongue over his and the strength of the fingers that had tangled in his hair and held him captive.

It was the Warden who broke the kiss, who drew back, lifting his lips from Zevran's. Their tongues were still touching—they slid away from each other, leaving a thin thread of spit between that sagged and broke.

They were both breathing rapidly, and for a while they simply stared at each other, still clutching at each other's hair, both of them too dazed and breathless to do much else.

Gradually, their breaths slowed, and their respective grips loosened. Zevran's legs felt a little weak—he leaned back against the tree behind him, bracing his weight on it. The Warden sighed, a sad sigh; Zevran expected the Warden to step back, but instead the human planted his hands on the tree the elf had leaned on, and the human's head dropped until his forehead touched Zevran's, and the eyes—still dark and hot with passion—closed.

"…I'm sorry."

The quiet words poked through the fog that clouded Zevran's mind. "Hmm?" His head was still swimming—mentally giving himself a shake, Zevran gathered his wits and peered up at the Warden. "What for?"

"For avoiding you." The firm lips curved in a self-mocking smile. "You weren't really angry about the Anvil; you were angry at  _me._ " The Warden opened his eyes slightly, gave Zevran a squint-eyed look of amusement. "Am I right?"

Zevran looked back, silent while he briefly debated with himself, and then decided denial would be rather useless in this situation. He smiled back, even as he gave the Warden a rather pointed, accusing stare. "Considering I  _did_  make it clear that I fancy you, and you not protesting against that, having you suddenly avoid me after that is rather like getting a kick in the balls."

"Ow." The Warden winced. "All right, all right, I admit, I was being a fool." Not smiling any more, the Warden pushed off the tree, then stepped back, his hand dropping over his face and pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes squeezed shut.

Zevran stayed where he was, leaning against the tree, now with his arms crossed over his chest, and waited for the Warden to speak.

"…Andraste's knickers, this is difficult," the Warden muttered under his breath, and then he reached his hand up, ruffled his own hair and staring off into the trees just to the right of Zevran. "You know that Wolf is a notorious rake, right?"

"From what I heard from Teagan, yes," Zevran replied, wondering where this conversation was leading.

"Likely with tales of Wolf's legendary charm and ability to snare any woman he liked, I bet," the Warden said drily. "But that's not the point. What Bann Teagan  _doesn't_  know is that when the Wolf was much younger, he would look at other men, and want them like he wanted women. But that sort of behavior was not well-received amongst his peers, particularly in his group of friends, who were the sort that would cheerfully beat up any 'abnormal' boys."

Zevran grimaced, and then snorted, a rather eloquent way of showing his opinion on  _those_ kinds of people. The Warden smiled at his reaction. "Yes, well, Wolf wasn't exactly a pleasant person, either. Anyway, being the sort who wanted to keep his bones intact, Wolf did his best to ignore those feelings, dismissing them as a 'phase' he was going through, and as he grew older he soon had more than his fair share of women to occupy his time and desire with so he forgot about those feelings.

"Time passed, and through a series of unfortunate events Wolf ended up as the Warden. And then through another series of unfortunate events the Warden stumbles across a pretty little elf—"

_Pretty? LITTLE?_

"—who tried to kill him, failed, and then ended up being dragged along as a companion. Then the Warden started noticing things, like how graceful the elf was, how smooth the tanned skin was, and then he started wondering things." The Warden finally looked away from the trees and directly at Zevran, while his smile widened into a familiar wolfish grin. "Like if the elf's hair was a soft as it looked, and what would it be like if he sank his teeth into that skin and left his mark there."

The predatory light in the Warden's eyes made Zevran's heart flip over itself, but the elf kept his stance and smile casual. "And the Warden didn't act on those impulses?"

The Warden shook his head. "Maker's breath, no. The Warden was  _horrified_  at himself. He made excuses: that he was lonely, that he had not lain with a woman for a long time and was looking for any release, that being so constantly near death was making him feel urges to remind himself that he was still alive, and finally that he didn't know if the elf returned his feelings and that it would be highly inappropriate for him to seduce what was essentially a subordinate."

Zevran arched a brow at that. "The Warden was worried about propriety? While living with a traveling camp that practically had no privacy?"

"The Warden had rather strong notions he picked up while he was Wolf; those kinds of things are hard to forget," the Warden ( _Maker help me,_  Zevran thought. _This conversation is beyond strange, with the Warden talking about himself in the third person_ ) said, grinning. "As for denying himself his attraction to the elf, he succeeded, for a while, until that elf found him in Redcliffe and told him, with that damned smirk on his face and that bloody sexy voice, that he fancied the Warden.

"So now he knew the elf shared the attraction, and he was even  _more_  scared of his own reaction, so he attempted to completely  _forget_  the elf was there…and…well, we all know how  _that_  turned out." The Warden laughed suddenly, and the light dancing in his eyes was full of mischief. "You know, you do get feisty when you're riled. I almost feel sorry for the darkspawn."

Zevran's eyes narrowed, and his smile grew a sharp edge. "I don't like being manipulated. Or ignored."

"Yes, yes, I know." Chuckling, the Warden strode to Zevran, tipped his chin up with a finger, then bent and gave the elf a light, gentle kiss that was there and gone before Zevran could blink. But the Warden's face was serious as he stepped back. "I know you want me, Zevran. And I feel the same. Just…give me a bit of time, all right? I've never lain with someone with genitals like my own; even thinking about it seems rather awkward in my head."

And the Warden gave Zevran such a woeful, wide-eyed look that made him think of the little wolf-puppy whimpering with large, shiny woeful eyes as Zevran held onto a choice bit of venison.

Zevran snorted, choked, and just  _barely_  managed to hold the laughter in check. Instead he smiled and shrugged. "We have all the time in the world, my dear Warden." He pushed off the tree, sauntered over to the Warden (who was watching him with a mixture of wariness and want, which was ridiculously endearing) and then he reached up, with the fingers of one hand lightly stroked a sharp-boned cheek. His smile took on a wicked air, and his voice dripped with lascivious intent as he spoke: "And I shall do my best to… _help_  you in the meantime."

"Please, do."

The words were spoken in a voice that was all seriousness; the dark, predatory light in the Warden's eyes made the words curl around Zevran's insides like a warm, living thing that settled to pool in his groin.

Zevran cleared his throat to get rid of the sudden tightness and summoned a bright smile. "Come now, enough chit-chat. I believe our companions are awaiting us in camp. We should not keep them waiting, no?"

"Mmm, yes, we should be going." The Warden grinned at Zevran. "Shame, really. I was looking forward to ravishing you right here."

Zevran blinked. But the Warden had turned and walked away, and had disappeared amongst the trees.

A slow smile crept across his face, and with a shrug he went after the Warden.  _Later, my dear Warden,_  he thought to himself.  _Perhaps, in another time, we'd speak more of ravishing._

_~to be continued~_


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not checked by beta. Any mistakes are my own.

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 10_

* * *

The first thing that indicated something went wrong was when the Warden let out a yelp. "Blood and damnation, I think I'm stuck."

"Are you sure, my dear Warden?" Zevran narrowed his eyes at the Warden. "Perhaps you're simply struggling too much? You _know_ that being over-eager about things isn't always a good thing. Especially in this."

"Very funny. And I'm not over-eager, I was—Maker's breath it's _sucking me in._ "

"I believe if you try to stay still—"

" _Are you out of your bloody mind?_ Get over here and help, for mercy's sake!"

"Oh, _fine._ " Zevran rolled his eyes. "Don't be such a crybaby."

"You try and stay calm when you have your leg _stuck from the knee down in a damned bog!_ Leliana! A little help here!"

"Coming, Warden!" Leliana sprinted over to the Warden's side, carefully staying on the edge on the bog. "Zevran, the other arm, if you'll please…"

Zevran laughed—which only earned a scowl from the Warden—but he obligingly went around the Warden and grabbed the other man, just beneath the armpit.

"Ready?" Leliana asked, sounding a little too much like she was enjoying this. "On the count of three…one…two… _three!_ "

They both tugged, _hard_ , and the Warden's leg was pulled out of the bog with a positively obscene (in Zevran's opinion, anyway. He'd find obscenity in everything) _shloop-plop_ sound. Suddenly free, the Warden tried to reduce the momentum of the pull, failed, and with flailing arms landed on the soggy ground with an almighty crash and clatter on his face.

Zevran and Leliana both watched the Warden slowly lift his head up, his scowling face liberally caked with mud, and then they both glanced at each other.

Leliana snorted.

The sound broke the awkward silence, and sent both rogues into a fit of giggling that ended up with the two of them sitting on the ground, clutching at their aching sides.

The fact that it quite clearly did not make the Warden's mood any better only made Zevran laugh harder.

Anlan, watching all of this from a safe distance, let out a curious whine and a bark.

"I'm fine," the Warden muttered, getting to his feet and glaring at the woman and elf still laughing hysterically on the ground. Sighing, he walked to Zevran's side and poked the elf's shoulder with the toe of his boot. "Oh, do get up. Wonderful, really, having friends like these."

"Oh-ho-ho, and who else helped you out of the bog?" Still chuckling, Zevran picked himself up from the ground. "More to the point, who was the one who quite clumsily ran into a bog in the first place?"

The Warden snarled, but the embarrassed flush that stole over his face kind of ruined the ferocity of it. "It's not like I knew there were bogs here, all right?"

"Didn't you say you've been here before?" Leliana said, smiling at Zevran when the elf offered her a hand to help her up.

"I was more concerned about getting out of here and away from the darkspawn horde, rather than paying attention to the scenic little path I had to take," the Warden muttered, removing his gauntlet and using his bare hand to scrub the mud off his face. "And unlike now, I had a beautiful, golden-eyed, dark-haired, milky-skinned, scantily-clad and sharp-tongued witch-bitch leading the way."

"Too busy staring at her swaying hips to pay attention to what path she took, I take it?" Leliana said with a grin.

The Warden's eyes rolled. "Of course not, what do you take me for? I'm not so desperate that I'd ogle a woman when I'm escaping for my life—even if she was the prettiest thing to look at for miles around. And if you _really_ must know, I was rather disappointed she had her back to me. Tits over arse, and eyes over tits, in my opinion. _Alistair_ was the one more interested in her hindquarters." The Warden smirked. "Not that he would ever admit it, the poor repressed virginal bastard."

That one comment was enough to send Zevran into another laughing fit (although he managed to stay on his feet this time around). Leliana was frowning—or rather, attempting to frown. The corners of her lips kept twitching upwards. "It's not nice to make fun of Alistair like that," she said reproachfully.

Well. At least she got the tone right.

"Make fun of him? Perish the thought." There was that wolf's grin again as the Warden, with a brief grimace, put his gauntlet back on. "I am simply shocked that he has not even made the beast with two backs at his age. I gave away my virginity when I was, what, sixteen?"

Leliana looked…rather strangely fascinated. Zevran couldn't fault her—he felt the same. "Really? At only sixteen? With whom?" she asked.

"A much-older, but still beautiful woman whose husband was an overweight, gluttonous, drunken idiot," the Warden said with a shrug. "We got along well, one thing led to another and the next thing I know, I was rudely awakened from a nicely cozy cuddle by a very angry husband with a large sword. Ran out without my clothes, I did. Of course, that didn't stop me visiting her bed later—turned out that little escapade made the man's heart stop." He sighed. "And then of course she fell in love with me and asked me to marry her, and like any typical arsehole I stayed away from her after that, leaving her pining away with a broken heart."

"Warden!" Leliana exclaimed. She looked stunned. "That's a horrible tale."

"Well, the boy back then wasn't exactly a paragon of kindness and virtue. He had a very… _renegade_ sort of attitude, in every sense of the word." The Warden's laugh was distinctly jaded. "Anyhow, enough of first experiences; let's get back on the road, shall we?" The Warden paused, and glared at the boggy, overgrown swamp. "Or what passes for a road here…"

"Mmm…I think I'll lead the way this time, yes?" Leliana murmured, delicately picking her way over the muddy ground. "Since you told me about the landmarks, and I do have better survival skills, we shouldn't get _too_ lost. Or fall into more bogs," she added with a twinkle in her eye.

The Warden snorted. "Oh, _fine_ , after you, my dear lady." He bowed mockingly to her.

Giggling, she made her way around and past the Warden. "You are too kind, good ser."

"Show-off," the Warden retorted, without any real heat. He whistled sharply, and Anlan (who was busy investigating a nearby bush) looked up, barked, and bounded after Leliana.

"I _love_ that dog," the Warden said fondly.

"You and every other Ferelden, I'm sure," Zevran murmured drily, shifting his pace to stride alongside the Warden. "We hear stories in Antiva, about how Fereldan men cannot sleep without a dog in their bed."

"What?" the Warden exclaimed with a laugh. "No, no, that's not true. I mean, I'll admit, some women can be utter _bitches_ , but that's a common thing across all cultures."

"You have a point," Zevran murmured with a chuckle. He arched an eyebrow. "Did Wolf really cause the death of a man because he made the man into a cuckold?"

"Unfortunately, yes," the Warden sighed. "Wolf was a thoroughly unpleasant fellow, to be honest with you. He took his wealth and his title for granted, sadly, and never gave much thought about things like 'consequences' and 'the future'. Handsome, strong, filthy rich…he thought the world revolved around him." The human's lips stretched in a tight smile, and he shook his head slowly. "What a complete and utter fool."

Zevran snorted. "We're all fools when we are young. And we all grow up by learning to be less like fools, no?"

"Point."

A brief, companionable silence fell, the only sounds being that of the swamp, and Leliana animatedly chatting away to an attentive Anlan.

"So…" the Warden glanced sideways at Zevran. "When and how did _you_ lose your virginity?"

Zevran glanced back at the Warden, and his mouth curved into a smile. "Why do you wish to know?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe because you're older and more experienced, perhaps?" the Warden said lightly. "Perhaps there are some things you can tell me on how to have great sex."

"Warden, if you asked, I'd be happy to give you private lessons, and I'll show you first-hand how good sex can be." Zevran grinned. "Practice is always better than theory after all."

"Ah, the advantages of having a more experienced partner," the Warden murmured. "No need for romance and flowers and sweet whispered words and hoping to the Maker you did not say the wrong thing. Just a simple 'Hey there, beautiful, why not we go somewhere quiet and don the velvet hat?'"

"…did you actually _use_ that line on a woman?"

"That particular lady was _very_ open-minded. She also had a _very_ odd sense of humor."

"Ah. That kind of explains it." Zevran scratched at his chin. "But back to your original question, I was around seventeen or so, and I lost it to a whore. It wasn't particularly exciting, really, compared to the kinds of things I did over the years."

"Mmm…" The Warden grinned wickedly at Zevran. "Another thing I like about more experienced partners—there are always things to learn."

Zevran smirked. "I take it that you enjoy older partners in general?"

The chuckle that came from the Warden's throat was one of dark pleasure. "Let me put it this way, Zevran," he said in a low, almost purring voice. "For me, a lover, like fine wine, gets better with age. Each encounter is an experience, a complex bouquet of robust flavors and heady scents to drown the senses in, even as you to take your time to savor and enjoy its subtleties."

The elf raised his eyebrows at the metaphor. "Fine wines are usually very difficult to find—and expensive."

"Ah…but unlike the cheap swill most men are contented with, each encounter is unforgettable, and never of regret." The Warden laughed, and the aside glance he gave Zevran was teasing. "Well, unless it's a _poisoned_ wine, but that is an entirely different story. Should I be worrying about poisons, Zevran?"

 _Ouch._ That verbal jab went below the belt, it did. "Warden, if you had to worry about poisons in the first place, you wouldn't be breathing right now."

"Oh, good. I really wouldn't want to end up all flushed and breathless and feverish." The human paused. "Well, actually I do, but without the added novelty of poison."

"Warden!" Leliana suddenly called out. "I think I found the hut!"

"Aaand there goes our discussion," the Warden said with a sigh. "Oh, well." He grinned. "Let's go pay a visit to an old witch and get ourselves a grimoire, shall we?"

"Are you sure about this, Warden?" Zevran murmured. "Flemeth is reputed to be incredibly powerful, you know."

"Last I saw her, she was a nutty old bat. Considering the kind of trials we went through at the Deep Roads, I think we can pretty much handle an old woman, even if she was a powerful mage, don't you think?" The Warden shrugged. "What could possibly go wrong?"

_~to be continued~_

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not checked by beta. Any mistakes are my own.

* * *

  _Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 11_

* * *

"Warden?"

"Yes?"

"Remember when you said that nothing could possibly go wrong?"

"Yes!"

"I'm just going to say one thing… _you are an IDIOT!_ "

Fire rained down, and Zevran jumped back, just barely avoiding the scorching blast. He could feel the heat sting his skin and he smelt his hair sizzling.  _Oh, wonderful, I just hope I don't end up bald after this is over._

Swearing, the Warden dodged a swiping claw and slashed at the offending foreleg. Sparks flew as the blade scraped over impervious scales. "I didn't think she was going to turn into a bloody  _High Dragon!_ "

"Then you better start thinking next time!" Zevran shouted back, attempting to sneak around the dragon, but a flap of massive wings sent him flying back.

"Less talking, more fighting!" Leliana shouted from behind them. A flaming arrow flew and managed to lodge itself between scales. The dragon—Flemeth—shrieked and opened its mouth wide, ready to spit out another blast of flame.

Anlan, barking badly, nimbly weaved between the dragon's flailing claws and bit at the vulnerable underbelly. The distraction made the dragon flinch, and the fireblast went wide, burning over a shallow part of the swamp's river and leaving behind an area of cracked mud and hissing steam.

With a roar, the dragon viciously swiped at the mabari. The blow connected, sending the hound flying through the air to crash with a loud thud at a wall of the hut. Anlan yelped, and collapsed on the ground, unmoving.

"Anlan!" the Warden called, snarling as he repelled another swiping claw.

The dog whined, and struggled to its feet, only to flop back on the ground again, alternating between yelps and whines.

 _This is no good._  Zevran glanced at the plainly injured dog, then at the Warden, thrusting and slashing and just  _barely_  doing any damage. Leliana's arrows bounced uselessly off the scales, except for the occasional hit at the soft flesh between scales. Zevran was panting hard, having spent more time avoiding being hit (and with his too-light armor, getting seriously injured or outright killed) than attacking the dragon. Leliana's face was as tight as her bowstring, and the Warden…Zevran couldn't be sure, but he seemed to be favoring one leg over the other, and the face was pale beneath the helmet.

_Any longer and we'd all tired out, and then we'll end up in the belly of the beast._

"Zevran!" The Warden yelled, just as the dragon's head lunged at him. He swung his sword, slicing the creature across the face, and it flinched back, shrieking. "Zevran! Take Leliana and  _get help!_ "

"What?" Leliana yelped. "Warden! We can't leav—"

"I'll be alright, Leliana! Go get help!  _Go!_ "

"You're  _insane!_ " Zevran shouted, just as the dragon let out an ear-blasting roar. "You won't make it!"

"Then make sure that both of you do!" The Warden glared at Zevran. "Get  _out! NOW!_ "

"War—"A flailing tail lashed out at Zevran, and he cut his words off. The elf ducked, letting it sail over his head, noted the spikes running up the creature's spine—well. Well.

He stared at the rough, scaly hide, at the protruding spikes…

A plan sprang to life in his head. It wasn't much of a plan, really, and insanely suicidal to boot.

But since he was looking for death anyway…

The dragon slashed at the Warden, throwing the human back. The Warden fell back, stumbled; his feet braced apart to halt the momentum—and he cried out as his left leg gave, ending with him half-kneeling on the ground.

 _That's it._ "Leliana!" Zevran shouted, sheathing his sword and dagger. "Suppressing fire,  _now!_ "

"What the—Zevran!"

He ignored her shout, simply fixed his sight on his goal—and ran straight at the dragon.

"Zevran!" The shout was male, rough with exhaustion and fierce with anger and pain. He ignored that too, only kept his eyes on the dragon—on the spikes lining its back.

The dragon saw him running around it, and with a roar twisted—and shrieked as an arrow lodged in its neck.

"Over here, you fiend!" Leliana drew back her bowstring again, and fired another arrow. "Look over here, damn you!" Another volley of arrows rained at the dragon's head.

With a roar, the dragon turned, its attention focused on Leliana now.

 _Thank you, Leliana!_  Zevran watched the sweeping tail, and waited—now!

He sprinted, his legs pumping him across the muddy ground as fast as they can, and just as the tail swung around, they coiled, and sprang—

And he was on the tail, his hands scrabbling for purchase, catching on the rough scales. He grabbed, clutched, and for a moment simply hung on as the tail swinged again.

"Got you!" he hissed, already reaching for one of the spikes.

They were a bit too big for his hand, but the surface of those spikes were rough, pitted—his leather gloves gripped them well enough. As quick as he could, he pulled himself up the tail, past the haunches, and over its back.

Leliana was running circles around the dragon, shooting arrows when she could. The massive creature's bulk was a hindrance to itself—hissing and spitting, it couldn't catch up with the nimble-footed bard as she practically danced around the dragon, and Zevran easily scaled up over the dragon's spine; he resolved to buy Leliana a pair of nice shoes for distracting the dragon so well.

Briefly, he glanced at the Warden. The human had stared, wide-eyed and mouth open, when he first started climbing up the dragon—now he was struggling to his feet, a bottle of magical health poultice already in hand, no doubt taking the opportunity to temporarily heal whatever damage had been done to his leg.

Satisfied that the Warden was safe—for now—Zevran grimly resumed his task.

The dragon suddenly reared back—and one of his hands slipped. Flailing, his fingers closed over one of the arrows in the dragon's neck, pulled—

_Damn!_

With a shriek of pain, the dragon just realized the elf's presence, and roaring wildly it bucked and twisted, attempting to throw him off. Gripping onto the spikes as hard as he could, he held on as the dragon flailed about.

Suddenly there was a burning, lancing pain in his leg—he screamed as a claw dug into his calf and sliced down, opening a long, deep gash in the muscle. The pain was a crippling thing, and his grip weakened—

Then the dragon howled as a greatsword thrust deep into its side, lancing through the scales. Face grim, the Warden leaned against the sword, driving it deep, and then pulled back and away just before a foreleg swiped at him.

"Hurry, Zevran!" the human shouted, already running around, avoiding the dragon's claws and teeth.

The Warden's words were a boost to Zevran's strength—relieved that the Warden was all right, he tried his best to ignore the pain as he pulled himself up the dragon's neck.

Almost, a little more—there!

His hands closed over one of the dragon's 'horns', clutched tightly—with a grunt, he pulled himself up atop the dragon's head. The wildly thrashing dragon nearly unseat him—hissing from the pain in his calf, he hooked his feet behind the spurs just behind the dragon's cheek, and his knees gripped the sides of the narrow skull just as he drew out his sword.

_Well, here goes nothing._

Reversing his grip, point facing down, he raised his sword high above his head—and plunged it down into a fierce gold eye.

With a sickening  _pop_ the eye burst, and blood and fluid sprayed out and over his arm, hot enough to sting where it managed to get beneath the leather and splash on his skin, smelling like bile and sulphur and rust. He heard the tip scrape over the bone at the back of the socket.

The dragon  _howled_ , and reared back, tossing its head wildly. He remained seated, his hooked legs keeping him secure.

He was laughing, whooping as the dragon bucked beneath him, his blood singing with the wild excitement of the fight.

"Let's see who wins in this!" he shouted, raising his sword and stabbing down again.

Once more there was the screech of bone against metal. Undeterred, his head dizzy with bloodlust, he kept stabbing, again and again and again and again—

Finally, he heard a crack, and the sword wedged oh-so-slightly into the bone.

His face ached from the wide grin stretched across it. With a yell of triumph, he raised his sword and stabbed down for the final time.

The blade pierced through the weakened bone, shattering it, and plunged into the soft insides of the creature's brain. He leaned against the sword, wrenching it side to side, widening the crack in the bone. Then he braced his weight on the hilt, and he leaned on it, driving the sword deeper.

The dragon's screeching was deafening—the sounds were like dull rods driving into his ears. He didn't care,  _couldn't_  care, his mind and body focused on driving that sword  _deeper deeper deeper—_

The dragon reared back, letting out a howl that died off into a weak croak. A shudder went through the monster's body, and then its forelegs collapsed, and the dragon tilted, falling over.

The sword was wedged deep into the skull—ignoring it, he unhooked his legs, waited, waited, and just before the skull crashed onto the ground he leapt away, avoiding getting his legs from being crushed by the weight.

He hit the ground shoulder-first, on his side—without thinking he tucked his body, and with a smooth rolling motion his body tumbled across the ground with the momentum, until he finally ended up on sprawled on his back, panting, covered in blood and Maker-knows-what and the dragon's death cry still ringing in his ears.

_Zevran…Zevran!_

The voices sounded far away. He opened his eyes (had he closed them? He couldn't remember) and saw the Warden and Leliana peering down at him.

"Zevran, oh  _thank the Maker!_ "Leliana pulled him up and into a tight, almost crushing hug around his neck and shoulders—mostly around the neck, unfortunately, and he gagged as her arms tightened. "Maker's breath you crazy, brave man, you were  _wonderful!_ "

"Yes, yes, thank you Leliana butcanyouletgo _youarechokingme!_ "

"Oh! Sorry." The hug eased, and he sucked in a grateful breath. She leaned back, but still clutched him by the shoulders, her eyes teary and her smile brilliant. "You were  _a-maze-ing!_ " she gushed—and to his pleasant surprise, she cupped his face in her hands and rained kisses all over it, blood and all. "You are a hero! To see you climb on the dragon—Flemeth—like that, I thought you'd die any moment!"

"He  _could_  have died."

The Warden's voice was cold, practically radiating frost. Zevran looked up and grinned back at the icy glare directed his way. "What, no thanks? No 'congratulations'?"

"I'll save them for later.  _After_ I cut your ears off. If Wynne doesn't cut them first—Andraste's flame look at that leg!"

"Mm?" He glanced down, at the red coating his injured calf. Blood was gathering in a little pool underneath it now—oddly, it didn't hurt now, even though it had been burning while he was on the dragon. Must had been the battle rush numbing it. "Oh,  _that._  I don't think all of that blood is mine."

"Maybe not all, but most of it."

Leliana glanced down, followed Zevran's gaze—seeing the wound, she gasped, her face aghast. "Oh, Maker, that's too much blood. We have to get that healed, quickly!"

"I'll help him back to camp," the Warden muttered, and before Zevran could protest an arm was sliding under his armpits, while one of his arms was pulled to drape over a set of broad shoulders. "Leliana, go help Anlan. I don't think he's bleeding much but he'll be terribly bruised after that landing. Give him some mabari crunches, get his strength back up."

"All right Warden," Leliana said, getting to her feet and going over to the still-panting dog.

"Can you stand?" the Warden asked Zevran, easily—ridiculously-so—getting to his feet even with Zevran leaning on him.

"I…think so." Gingerly, Zevran tested his legs—they were wobbly, and the world seemed to be tilting (and going grey…but there wasn't anything grey in the Koncari Wilds…right?), but he could stand with minimal support from the Warden. "Wait, the grimoire—"

"Will still be here, since Flemeth is dead—I think—and will still be here while we get you patched up at camp," the Warden said, more than a little exasperated.

"Oh, all right then." Odd how the ground seemed really soft, almost rolling. And his belly was doing acrobatic leaps while his heart was bouncing around like a maggot trapped in a jar. And he was quite sure that the trees were grey now, and so is the sky—wait, that can't be right…

"Zevran?  _Zev?_  Damn you, elf, look at me."

"Hmm?" He turned his head—it felt like it was made of lead—and looked at the Warden. "Hmm…what?"

He saw the Warden's eyes widen—although they seemed to be growing fuzzy. "Oh, blood and damnation, you're as white as a sheet!"

"…There are white sheets?" he exclaimed. The Warden's head and the sky blended, swirled into a dizzying whirl of color. "Didn't know that. They were always rather yellow, when I was in Antiva." Little black spots swam in his vision, blotting out the world and growing fatter and fatter with each jumping leap of his heartbeat, even as the throbbing in his leg grew hotter and hotter. "And full of lice—itching, biting fiends. But then I'm not in Antiva, am I?"

"Zevran? Oh, bollocks, don't faint on me— _Zevran!_ "

The spots swarmed over him, like a cloud of hungry locusts, and then all he saw was blessed darkness.

_~to be continued~_


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not checked by beta. Any mistakes are my own.

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 12_

* * *

The soft scraping of pestle on mortar woke him.

He awoke in stages. First his mind stirred, carefully circling around what had happened, where he was. His head felt light enough to detach from his neck and float away, even when the rest of his body felt like lead.

He became aware of pain—his calf, stiff and achy, the familiar feeling of a magical healing.

Slowly, cautiously, he opened his eyes, found himself staring at the starry sky. There was the glow of a fire just at the edge of his vision, and he heard the familiar chatting sounds of camp—Oghren and his hoarse-voiced drunken slur, punctuated by raucous laughter and the occasional belch; Sten's slow, ponderous words, strung in tight, to-the-point sentences; Alistair with his cheerful quips and laughter, liberally sprinkled with loud chewing and 'mm, yummy'; Morrigan's sing-song drawl, with some snapping as Oghren tried to get too close to her (again); Leliana and her light voice, giggling away. And above it all the scraping sound of stone, which…had suddenly stopped.

"Oh, good. You're awake."

Wynne's voice, gentle and soft—deciding he felt well enough to sit up, he did, without much trouble. He turned, saw Wynne set aside her mortar and pestle and reaching for a kettle and a goblet. "How are you feeling?" the mage asked.

Zevran frowned, took a quick check of his body and what it was telling him. "Weak, a little bit dizzy, and my leg aches."

"Mmm, good. I've healed the leg, and it should be better come morning."

"So I can see. Thank you." He was in a quiet spot in camp, the tents pitched nearby blocking his view of the campfire—and similarly blocked the view of those who'd gathered around that fire, giving him some measure of privacy and quiet. He glanced at the sky again, remembered it was morning when they made the trip into the Koncari Wilds. "How long was I asleep?"

"Most of the day, actually. I fed you a sleeping draught some time ago, when you began to stir a bit too early."

Ah…it explained the thick, sticky feeling at the back of his mouth, although he did not remember waking to take that draught.

A hand lightly touched his forearm, and the goblet was pushed into his hands. "Here, take this. Drink it all."

He took the goblet obligingly, and peered warily into the water liquid inside it. "What's this?"

"Yellow dock root tea. It'll help you recover from the blood loss. I've healed your wounds, but I cannot replace the blood you've lost."

"Oh." He took a cautious sip. The tea was warm, and…very grassy. Not unpleasant, really, just very bitter and strange-tasting. Shrugging, he gulped down the rest, while Wynne watched him with a stern frown. "From what Leliana and the Warden have told me, you've taken a great risk attacking Flemeth."

Zevran snorted as he set the goblet aside, dismissing her concern with a shrug. "It was that or let the Warden die. He tried to chase us away."

"Yes, Leliana told me that." Wynne sighed. "And I have to say that while I do not approve of you risking your life in such a manner, I believe the Warden had erred in attempting to send the two of you away." She inclined her head. "In fact, I'd say that for someone who had attempted to kill the Warden not too long ago, to have actually risked your own neck in  _saving_  the life you'd been paid to assassinate…you have done remarkably well, and the Warden owes you a debt."

The idea of the Warden owing  _him_  a debt made Zevran laugh. "I'm not so sure, my dear Wynne." He smiled. "He did save me from being hunted by the Crows, and that alone is a debt I cannot hope to repay."

There was the crunch of gravel, and Zevran felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He already knew who was behind him, even before the Warden's voice spoke: "So you attempted suicide in order to escape that debt?"

Zevran laughed, and turned to his other side, meeting the Warden's sharp eyes with a teasing grin. "Oh, if only things were so simple, Warden. But I find that I enjoy your charm and hospitality more than a gruesome death."

"Uh-huh." The Warden's eyebrow quirked up. Zevran noted that the Warden, dressed in casual clothing, was carrying a steaming earthenware bowl. "Charm and hospitality. Right. Clearly you've lost too much blood and can't think straight. Wynne, how long will it be before Zevran here gets well enough that we head back on the road again?"

"I'd give him a day or two, provided he drinks at least two cups of that tea each day, and he eats regularly. After that he should be able to travel, although I'd keep him out of fighting for at least another week." Wynne gave Zevran a stern look. "And you should spend as much time resting, at least for the next few days, until that muscle in your calf mends properly and you get your strength back up."

In response, he smiled a placating smile, even though he was mentally groaning—the idea of being stuck in his pallet for even a day, with nothing to do and bored out of his wits, was enough to make him consider banging his head on his dagger. "Of course, my dear Wynne." He gave her the most innocent, pleading look he can muster. "Do I get to lay my head on your bosom as you comfort me this time?"

He suppressed a laugh as the older woman's eyes widened, and then narrowed in a familiar look of annoyance. "Will you cease asking me about my bosom? It's getting rather tiresome."

"But you have such a  _wonderful_  bosom, Wynne, even with the history of fine ones in my past. It would be a shame to not delight in it."

There was an odd, choking sound—glancing briefly at the direction of the sound, he saw that the Warden was staring rather intently at the trees nearby, and the firm lips pressed tightly together.

Wynne didn't seem to notice the Warden's reaction. "Egad. You never give up, do you?" Throwing her hands up, she got to her feet, adjusting the skirt of her robes. "I'll be going to take my dinner and then head to bed, now that you're awake."

"And the lovely woman rejects me once again," Zevran said mournfully. "Alas, woe is me, to be once again denied the bounty of Wynne's bosom."

"…" Giving Zevran a look of annoyed disgust, Wynne turned sharply on her heel and (almost) stomped her way to the campfire.

Zevran and the Warden quietly watched the mage until she disappeared from sight, and then looked at each other.

The Warden's face was caught between hilarity and horror. "You can't possibly really want to lay your head in Wynne's bosom, can you?"

Zevran grinned. "I might mean it, and I might not mean it. And weren't you the one who talked about how older lovers are like finely aged wine?"

"Zevran, she's old enough to be my grandmother. I like older women, but not  _that_  old."

"Why not? I'm quite sure she knows more bedroom tricks than even I. And she really does have a fine bosom. It was hard not to notice, not with that deep neckline of those robes she was wearing."

The Warden's mouth pursed in thought as he sank down to sit cross-legged beside Zevran. "Well…you do have point. She does have a surprisingly firm chest, and the size is nice too, not too big but not really sma— _Maker's breath,_  why am I discussing the assets of a woman who reminds me too much of Nan?"

"I don't know," Zevran said innocently. " _Why_  are you?"

"Oh, bugger it." Shaking his head, he held the bowl out to Zevran. "Dinner, by the way. You must be famished by now."

As if on cue, Zevran's stomach let out a protesting growl. "Well, my belly certainly thinks so," he said with a laugh, taking the bowl and peering at it.

Quite instantly his appetite vanished. "Err…what is this?" He picked up the spoon, and scooped up some of the thick grayish soup from the bowl. A limp, sorry-looking thing that was probably a cabbage leaf in its previous life hung despondently from neck of the spoon.

"Mutton and pea stew. And to be entirely honest, it isn't as bad-tasting as it looks. Probably because it just doesn't have much taste in the first place."

"…I see." Grimacing, Zevran tipped the spoon, letting the liquid collected in it slowly dribble back into the bowl. "Alistair must have drawn the short straw in the cooking duties again."

"Why, yes he did!" the Warden exclaimed in mock surprise. "How'd you know?"

"Because I can only think of one person in our camp that can spoil something as simple as  _stew_." Sighing, he set the bowl to one side, deciding to let it cool first—cold 'stew' can at least be gulped down with a minimum of tasting involved.

"You'll have to eat that, you know," the Warden murmured. "Healer's orders."

"I know." He gave the Warden a too-knowing glance. "But you're here for reasons other than to make sure I consume the required amount of food, no?"

"Figured that out all by yourself, didn't you?" the Warden said with a smirk, which was abruptly replaced by a solemn look. "Actually, I was planning to yell at you."

"Yell at me?" Zevran repeated. "What for?"

"Oh, you know, for the usual reasons: disobeying orders, risking your life, that sort of thing."

Zevran waited, but the Warden was silent, and rather resolutely staring at the ground. "...I sense a 'but' in there somewhere."

The Warden frowned, waggled his head from side to side, and then sighed, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. "Well, I overheard Wynne earlier…and she's right. I do owe you my life, especially when you have no real obligation to protect it whatsoever. So…" The Warden straightened, met Zevran's eyes—and lowered his head in a short bow. "Thank you."

Zevran blinked at the top of the Warden's head. "I…you are welcome," he said.

The Warden chuckled as he straightened. "From that stunned note in your voice, you weren't expecting that, were you?" the human remarked, eyes twinkling. "But honor bids that I express my gratitude to you, for taking such an unseemly risk to end something that was a threat to my life."

Shock gave way to amusement. "Oh? Well, I suppose having the Grey Warden bow to me  _is_  an honor of sorts." He rubbed his chin, raising his eyebrows speculatively. "I could get used to this."

Smiling slightly, the Warden leaned over and not-so-lightly jabbed his pointer and middle fingers at Zevran's forehead. "Don't even  _think_  of turning uppity on me, Zevran," the Warden said blandly. "You are still bound by oath to me."

Zevran chuckled in response to that, even as he reached up to rub the sore spot. "Well, there is that."

A brief silence fell, the both of them simply at ease with each other. Then the Warden shifted, cleared his throat. "Well, I better head back to the campfire. Oghren's being awfully obnoxious, even by his usual standards, and I'm not keen on seeing Morrigan hurling fire at him—not with the spirits he'd imbibed."

Zevran watched the Warden start to get onto his feet—just as a thought occurred to him.

His hand shot out, caught the Warden around the wrist, where the tunic the Warden was wearing did not manage to cover. His fingers closed, gripped tightly.

The Warden halted, half-kneeling. He glanced at the hand, and then looked up, narrow-eyed, at Zevran. "What's this about?"

Zevran smothered a gloating, too-hungry smile, keeping his expression mild. "It occurs to me that perhaps I would want to have you pay back the debt you owe me for saving your life, no?"

The Warden's eyebrows shot to his hairline, then lowered in a frown. "…I see." The Warden nodded. "I've two medium-sized bars in my pack—one gold, one silver. I'll bring them to you when—"

"I was thinking about a different kind of payment."

The Warden stilled. Those sharp eyes were staring at him.

Zevran's grip on the Warden's arm was not as casual as it looked; two of his fingers had their tips clamped over the veins at that wrist. So even though the Warden's expression was quietly unreadable, Zevran could feel the pulse beneath his fingers skip. And speed up, throbbing heavily.

"Gold and silver not enough for you?"

Zevran noted the even tone, approved of the Warden's ability to hide his emotions. "Oh, they are, but you promised such things as payment for my 'services', as you'd said before." Smirking, he let his hand slide down, close over the Warden's long, elegant fingers. Keeping his gaze on the Warden's own, Zevran lifted the sinewy hand—smooth with a pampered life, rough with the telltale calluses of a swordsman—and lightly brushed his lips over the knuckles.

And was pleased to see desire darken the Warden's eyes. His lips curved against the hand, and he lifted his lips away, letting it hover above the warm skin, as his smile grew intent.

"As for this different kind of payment…consider it an incentive to continue saving your life from dire situations," he purred.

The human's eyes narrowed, but there was an amused smile curving the Warden's lips now. "I see. What…sort of payment are we discussing?"

The Warden's voice had lowered, the tone provocative, almost challenging. Zevran felt the little curl of arousal in his loins grow even tighter, felt his own smile widen.

"I was thinking…" Zevran let his voice trail away, as if he was actually pondering the nature of the payment and not already decided on that. "I was thinking…a kiss."

"A kiss?" The Warden quirked an eyebrow in mocking inquiry. "Is that all?"

Zevran barked a laugh at the cheekiness of that question. "Oh, no…it's only a down payment. Your debt is worth much, much more than just a kiss."

"Uh-huh. How much, exactly?"

Tsking, Zevran pulled on the Warden's hand, pleased to note that the Warden shifted closer without much resistance. "I'll give you the details later, my dear Warden, but I want the down payment first." He pulled again, a little harder. "Come—kiss me, and give me your mouth."

"Such impatience," the Warden murmured, even as he let himself be tugged closer, until only bare inches separated the two of them, so close that the Warden's breath bathed Zevran's, and the elf could feel the other man's exhalation brush his. "One would think that it's been some time since you've last kissed."

"Warden?"

"Yes?"

" _Shut up_ , and kiss me."

The Warden laughed wickedly, sending a thrill of excitement through Zevran. "Aye, aye, cap'n," he drawled, and then leaned over and closed the distance between them.

The kiss started innocently enough, just a brushing of lips…which lasted all of a heartbeat. The hunger that prowled within Zevran surged, roared—and he sensed an answering call from the Warden. Their lips fused, melted; Zevran let go of the Warden's hand, and instead pressed his palm against the Warden's chest, savoring the warmth that the woolen tunic couldn't hide, then skated that hand up, over a strong shoulder and grip the hard muscles there, even as his other arm slid around the Warden's waist and pulled the human closer to his body.

The Warden made a growl, low in his throat, and his lips parted beneath Zevran's, inviting, inciting; he gleefully plunged in, his tongue seizing, plundering, and he sensed the human's delight. The Warden wanted, as he did, with the same urgency, the same need.

A need more powerful than Zevran had felt before, stronger than anything he'd ever experienced—something which a wary little voice in the back of his mind said was not what he usually felt. He ignored that, shoved that voice into the back of his mind, and let himself  _feel._  Let the overwhelming need swamp through him, demanding but one end.

An end he and the Warden both transparently desired; the Warden's arms had stolen around his waist, hard palms pressed against his back and pulling their bodies closer.

Their bodies collided, and Zevran gasped, heard an answering moan from the Warden—without the armor that had blocked them before in their earlier encounter, he could feel the heat of the Warden's hard, taut frame, could delight in the sensation of another warm body moving against his.

The Warden's tongue, which had been passive before, rose and met his in a flagrant mating; the human's body strained, attempting to press closer even when it wasn't entirely possible, and Zevran felt himself let out a dark chuckle.

He didn't abate the passion, the aggression that bordered on possessiveness, in his kisses—he angled his head and deliberately pushed the Warden, harder, further, giving no quarter and accepting no appeasement.

Wasn't surprised that the Warden—his reckless, daring, domineering Warden—met him, took all of that passion, absorbed it, and turned it back, stoking his need with a flagrant fire that sent an answering desire roaring through Zevran's veins, until he felt it thudding down to his fingertips.

He wanted the Warden, wanted the human beneath him, above him, in him and around him. And from the way those hard hands trailing over his back were almost clawing at him, the Warden felt the same.

At least, the Warden felt the same in the  _wanting_ ; he knew the Warden had no experience in this arena, not with men—and he was very sure the human hadn't actually given a thought about how they would be making love, and all its little variations in positions.

_Give me a bit of time._

Well, the Warden asked for time, and Zevran agreed to give it. And the experienced lover in him told him that going any further than a kiss right here, right now, would not be the best way to lure the Warden into sharing the earthy delights that could be had between two men.

So with an ease born of practice and discipline, he harnessed his own passions and desire, and then set his mind, his hands, his lips to the task of slowly easing both of them from a kiss that had grown far from incendiary long ago.

Gently, he drew back from the Warden's mouth with a last, teasing lick, and looked at the Warden.

The human's eyes were heavy-lidded, and beneath the dark lashes (longer and thicker than even most women's, Zevran noted with amusement and appreciation) the eyes glittered brightly, almost feverish. The Warden's lips were swollen from the kiss, and still lightly parted by light panting breaths.

 _Beautiful._  That's how he thought the Warden looked in a state of passion—although he doubted the other man would appreciate that particular description being applied to him.

"I suppose this payment is enough, then?"

Zevran chuckled at the huskiness in the usually-smooth voice. He sat back, but kept his hand beneath the Warden's chin, thumb lightly brushing over the human's lower lip. "I believed that I'm satisfied,  _q_ _uerido._  For now."

A light shudder went through the Warden's frame. "I see." Brows rose, faintly challenging. "So how much more do you want before you're satisfied with the repayment of my debt?"

"Hmm…" Zevran's gaze lowered to the Warden's lips, and then flicked up to the keen eyes that were watching him. His smile was sultry, and darkly intent. "For that…I intend to kiss you again." The hand cupping the Warden's chin dropped, trailed a lone finger over the human's throat. "I will spend a great deal of time favoring your lips, your mouth. And after  _that…_ " He let the tip of his finger rest on the leaping pulse at the base. "I'll spend even more time savoring the rest of you, all of you. Every inch of your skin, every hollow, every plane. I am going to know you infinitely better than you know yourself."

His voice had lowered into a purring whisper; glancing up, he saw the Warden's eyes had widened with sensual shock—and the human appeared to be holding his breath, while the pulse beneath Zevran's finger fluttered wildly.

"I'm going to learn all of you, intimately." Zevran let that last word roll over his tongue, savored its implications. "I fully intend to explore all of you until there is nothing left to learn—until I know what makes you gasp, what makes you moan, and what makes you scream. And then I will make you do all three. Again and again and again."

The Warden swallowed—Zevran saw the lump at the human's throat bob. Then the Warden laughed, somewhat breathlessly. "You drive a hard bargain, Zevran."

The elf's lips quirked as he raised a light blond brow, his gaze drifting back to the Warden's eyes. "Ah…but I believe it's a bargain that you'd agree to."

The Warden was silent for a while, smiling slightly, the eyes still widened. Then the lips twitched, and the Warden inclined his head. "We have a bargain, then."

Zevran couldn't stop himself from letting out a soft, dark laugh as he drew back fully, his hand falling back to rest on his leg. "We have a bargain," he repeated, smiling.

The Warden made an inarticulate sound, and then got to his feet—with only the slightest of wobbles. "I'll see you later, Zevran," he said. The keen eyes met Zevran's, held them in a brief stare. "Good night, and sleep well."

With that, the Warden walked away, toward the campfire.

Zevran watched the straight-backed figure move away until it went around a tent and was out of his sight. Then, with a sigh that was part frustration and part satisfaction, he lay back on the pallet and stared up at the sky.

His body throbbed, and desire was a living thing prowling beneath his skin—and all from a single heated kiss?

He frowned, puzzled and not a little irritated. He'd experienced all kinds of sexual pleasures, but this… _hunger_  was something he had never felt, and did not entirely understand. In all of his previous dances with various lovers he had never been mindless, never had a single person reduce him to such a state—with good reason, since an assassin cannot afford to lose their head like that—but the Warden rather effectively lured out some primitive part of him that only thought about possessing the human in every possible physical way.

Snorting, he rolled over, pulled the blanket and furs over his body and settled down. Well, at least the Warden was agreeable to his demand—which meant that the desire riding him would soon be allowed to slake itself.

Smiling darkly, he closed his eyes and, with some effort, ignored the ache between his legs and fell asleep.

_~to be continued~_


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not checked by beta. Any mistakes are my own.

 

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 13_

* * *

The day passed slowly for Zevran; very _painfully_ so.

He had done as Wynne had ordered with quiet obedience (especially after he received an ear-blistering lecture about forgotten stew when he had awakened), and just lay down, resting as much as he could. The throbbing in his calf had slowly eased with each passing hour—unfortunately, the itch in his muscles also grew with each hour, and as evening approached he was ready to gnaw on his pillow from the frustration of _not moving_.

Fortunately for his sanity, the other members of the party stopped by throughout the day, just to talk and ask how he was doing. Alistair was the first to visit him, asking about his injuries. He sounded suitably impressed when he congratulated Zevran on killing a High Dragon, and had thanked him for risking his life saving the Warden. It did not escape Zevran's notice, however, that Alistair kept giving him sideways looks, as if the blond man wasn't quite sure what to think of him.

Leliana came by soon after Alistair had, looking worried at first but then relieved when she saw that he was recovering quickly. She spent quite some time beside him, both of them talking about whatever came to their mind, in between trading the usual gossip about the other companions—particularly gossip about the Warden, which Leliana seemed extremely interested in.

Sten…well, the giant simply stopped by, commented that he wasn't as weak as he'd seemed, and that the Warden might have reason to keep him, then left—and conveniently left a bag of cookies behind.

Oghren clapped him on the back and drunkenly roared that Zevran had "done good" by killing a dragon, even as the dwarf mourned the fact that he couldn't try his hand at a dragon himself. He also ribbed Zevran, asking about what he did to get the Warden so worked up over a 'tiny injury'; to which Zevran had shrugged and murmured about oaths, although he did not quite understand _why_ the dwarf kept giving him leery looks when he said that.

Morrigan was the most surprising visitor, particularly because the Warden was the one who brought her to him. The witch had hemmed and hawed while the human just stared at her, before she rather grudgingly thanked Zevran for his part in killing her 'mother' and helping the Warden recover the grimoire—and then she rather cattily remarked that the elf seemed to be doing his best to get in the Warden's good graces.

"She seems jealous of me for some reason," he commented to the Warden later, when the woman had left.

"She's all right, usually," the Warden said with a shrug, "but not exactly trusting of others."

"She distrusts everyone, my dear Warden. Except for you. Why is that?"

The Warden snorted. "How should I know? She's a woman, and from what I have learned over the years, the fairer sex is infinitely more complicated, and attempting to decipher female thought processes usually only brings confusion, a headache, and an urge to bang your head against a solid wall."

That comment made Zevran snicker in amused sympathy. "Yes, but it is this complexity that draws the eye of men, is it not?"

There was a wicked grin on the Warden's face. "That, and a nice pair of tits. Or legs or eyes or nostrils or whatever it is that draws the eye for a man."

"…Nostrils?"

"A former friend of mind liked nostrils. Don't ask. I didn't understand that back then, and I certainly couldn't understand it now." The Warden sat down beside Zevran, watching the elf. "How are you feeling?"

"Much better. Although I'd give a leg to be able to get out of—it was a figure of speech, don't glare at me like that!"

"Sorry," the Warden muttered. "It's just—Maker, Zevran, you really could have died back there."

Zevran blinked. This was news to him. "That bad?"

"Worse. Wynne said if I had not ran back to camp with all haste, you'd be too far gone for her to heal. As it was, I carried you in my arms and ran like I've a whole pack of darkspawn snapping at my heels. Seriously, Zevran, next time you decide to put your life on the line, you could have given me a word or tw—"

"Wait, just…wait." Zevran held up a hand to halt the Warden's prattling. His mind was still fixed on a sentence from earlier. "Let me get this clear—you _carried me_. In your _arms?_ "

"Well, yes, that was the fastest way to get you here." The Warden's eyes drifted over Zevran's body. "You're surprisingly light—well, not that you were fat or anything, and you are rather small, but still, I expected you to be a bit heavier."

"You carried me back to, in your arms. And the rest saw this?"

"Hm?" The Warden stared at him in puzzlement. "Of course they did; I was shouting for Wynne, and the noise rather inevitably attracted the rest. Why?"

Zevran kept his face blank, although in his mind he was carefully replaying what the others had said and did while talking to him: Alistair's glances, Leliana's questions, Sten's comment, Oghren's teasing, and Morrigan's spite.

He also remembered how he had rather carefully made sure he stayed close to the Warden before, in an attempt to draw the Warden's eye.

The others must had noticed that, and then when they saw the Warden returning to camp, carrying Zevran in such a manner and no doubt frantic with worry…they would had put two and two together and come up with a rather predictable conclusion.

Oh, dear.

A loud snap of fingers quite literally snapped him out his thoughts. He had jerked, instinctively flinching back from the snapping, and his gaze refocused—finally noticed the Warden's hand in front of his eyes. The human was watching him, brow creased in a frown.

"Are you all right? You just drifted off for a moment there."

Err…how was he going to tell the Warden that the rest of their little party had suspected there was more between Zevran and the human than mere comradeship?

"Warden, what would you think if a man decides to carry a woman in his arms when she is hurt?"

"What would I think? Well, perhaps that the man feels something for the woman, strong enough that he would—" Comprehension dawned in those keen eyes, and was quickly replaced by horror. "Oh _Maker_ , the others think there is something going on between us, don't they?"

"I'd say that would be precisely what they are thinking," Zevran said with a smirk, although he kept a close watch on the Warden's expression. "And considering that we've kissed each other, and the bargain we've made, I'd say that they are right in this, no?" His eyes narrowed. "Unless you don't feel comfortable with this…"

"Of course I don't!" the Warden blurted. "Do you have any idea how much the others gossip about each other? They'd be watching us with eyes and ears on stalks now!"

"I see." Zevran couldn't help feel but a pang of hurt—the Warden apparently still viewed a sexual relationship between two men as shameful.

A sad thing, perhaps, but let it be said that Zevran always had made sure his lovers would not be burdened by pursuing an affair with him. "I do not wish to make you uncomfortable, Warden. That bargain we made could be easily broken and forgotten, if you wish it."

"If I—no! I never said—oh, blast it. I'm sorry, Zevran." The Warden winced. "Maker, that came out wrong—what I meant…damn it, it's not about the bargain, I'm not at all sorry about that. I was trying to say sorry for me saying earlier that I'm not comfortable about this…whatever is between us. Because I'm completely—well, more or less all right with it, I'm just uncomfortable with the rest of our party talking about us—not that there's anything about that or—damn, no that sounded—oh, bugger it, I'm just going to shut up now, sit right over here, and continue chewing on my foot for a moment." With those words, the Warden propped his elbows on his crossed legs and buried his face in the waiting hands.

Zevran stared at the Warden, while his mind tried to make sense of the confusing babble the human had uttered. "…So…you are all right with this 'whatever' we have?"

"Yes," the Warden said, his voice muffled. The human lifted his face, smiled wryly. "Just not comfortable with scrutiny in general. I usually keep things to myself, if you haven't noticed. Damn travelling in a tight-knit group, and the lack of privacy that comes with it."

"Oh." Relief crashed through him, and oddly he felt his heart buoyed up by it. A smile stole over his face. "Well, since I did promise to make you scream, I think you should toss the idea of 'privacy' out of your head, no?"

That made the Warden laugh, even as that charming blush bloomed on the human's cheeks. "Err, right. I think I will." The Warden gave him a wolf's grin. "Although you're going to have to work hard to do that. I'm not very vocal."

"Is that so?" Zevran raised his eyebrows. "Hmm, a challenge, is it? How very interesting. But then, _you_ are an interesting one, _querido._ "

"Likewise, Zevran." The Warden's head tilted sideways, the way a curious bird would. "What is that word you just used? Is it Antivan?"

" _Querido?_ Yes, it is Antivan. It means something like 'darling' or 'beloved', although you only use it on a man; women are called _querida._ Are you curious about the language? Perhaps I might teach you _._ "

The Warden chuckled. "Oh, I suggest you don't, unless you want to make your eardrums bleed. I am _terrible_ at languages."

"Oh, it's not so difficult," Zevran said with a grin.

"Seriously, thanks but no." The Warden propped his chin on one hand, smiling. "But you could tell me a little about Antiva."

Zevran raised his brows. "Oh? You wish to know about Antiva, do you? The only way to truly appreciate it would be to go there. It is a warm place, not cold and harsh like this Ferelden. In Antiva it rains often, but the flowers are always in bloom…or so the saying goes," he said with a slight shrug and smile.

"Mmm…" The Warden was watching him with rapt attention. "Don't you want to go back?"

 _And get myself slaughtered like a prize pig?_ "It is not really a matter of wanting to go back. I cannot go. At least not yet." _I'd have to kill off the Crows pursuing me first._ Zevran grinned. "I hail from the glorious Antiva City, home to the royal palace. It is a glittering gem, amidst the sand, my Antiva City." Pride and longing welled in him with the words, and he regarded the Warden with a challenging smile. "Do you come from someplace comparable?"

The Warden had raised a brow, and the lips were twisted with amusement. "Of course." His smile grew into a grin. "My mother was better than any gem."

The unexpected reply made Zevran laugh. "You have me there, indeed! I, for one, can make no such claim as I have never laid eyes on the woman!"

The Warden's grin fell away, replaced by an appalled look. "Oh, sorry, I didn't mean—"

Zevran shook his head, cutting the Warden off, and smiled. He was all right, really, lack of mother or no. Which reminded him… "Hmm, you know what is most odd? We speak of my homeland, and for all its wine and its dark-haired beauties and the lillo flutes of the minstrels…I miss the leather the most."

He saw the Warden blink, slowly, a look of incomprehension in the keen eyes, before the eyebrows rose. "Is that some kind of euphemism?"

Zevran laughed. "It may as well be! But not this once, no. I mean the smell." He let his eyes lose their focus, slipping back into old memories. "For years I lived in a tiny apartment near Antiva City's leather-making district, in a building where the Crows stored their youngest recruits. Packed in like crates." _The smell of piss and sweat and fear, mixed with the constant stench of the tanning vats, and so many died, disease and neglect and constant fighting taking as much as half their number before they grew old enough to leave that little place._ "I grew accustomed to the stench, even though the humans complained of it constantly. To this day the smell of fresh leather is what reminds me of home more than anything else." _Because I survived. I lived, I fought, I grew strong, and because of that I survived the constant threat of Death, and became its master._

And the Warden was looking at him with that almost pitying look again. "You sound like you've been away from home forever."

There was sympathy in that voice, and understanding. Zevran was…unexpectedly touched, that the Warden would actually feel such concern for him. "Oh, not so long, I know. It is my first time away from Antiva, however, and the thought of never returning makes me think of it constantly." He smiled a bit wistfully. "Before I left, I was tempted to spend what little coin I possessed on leather boots I spotted in a store window. Finest Antivan leather, perfect craftsmanship…ah," he sighed, "but I was fool to leave them. I thought, 'Ah, Zevran, you can buy them when you return as a reward for a job well done!' More the fool I, no?"

There was a moment of quiet, as the Warden simply looked at him with solemn eyes that saw and knew too much. "Your home is still there, Zevran," the Warden finally said softly.

"True," Zevran acknowledged with a nod, "and it's a comforting thought. One simply never knows what is to come next." He smiled warmly. "How could I have suspected I would end up defeated by a handsome Grey Warden, a man who then spares my life? I could not."

The Warden was smirking. "Handsome?" the human repeated.

"Hmm…" Zevran pursed his lips. "Perhaps that was a poor choice of words, true though it is. Do you object?"

"Not at all." The smirk had turned into a grin now. "It was just unexpected."

"And glad I am to hear it," Zevran replied, returning the grin with one of his own.

"And if you would allow me to say so, you are not too bad-looking either." A pause as the Warden's grin sharpened. "Even if you look a trifle bit too pale now."

Zevran groaned. "Must you? Bad enough that Wynne keeps nagging me about how I am still too weak, and now you would join her as well?"

"Of course!" The Warden sounded annoyingly cheerful about that. "The fact that you are one of my men also means that you are, indirectly, under my care. Therefore, it is within my duty to make sure you fully recover."

Frustration sparked in him, and kindled his anger. "You speak a lot about duty, and of honor," Zevran retorted. "Are they really so important to you?"

He'd said those words out of irritation, without giving them much thought—the instant they left his mouth, he wished he could take them back.

The Warden…froze. That was the only way to describe how the human reacted. The hard body went rigid, the face blanking into a mask of stone, and the eyes…cold, so very cold, like sharp chips of ice.

"My honor," the Warden said, coldly, quietly—furiously, "is the only thing I have left. I have no name, no power, no home. And duty is the only thing that keeps me here, to make sure that I see through this fight against the Blight to the very end." Pain flashed within the coldness of that gaze, before the Warden's eyes closed and the human lowered his head. "I had neglected my duties as Wolf, as I was in the past; and I will not neglect them as the Warden, as I am now." His hands balled into fists where they rested above his knees, clenched so tight that the knuckles gleamed. "Wolf was a complete and utter _fool_ , and I cannot, _will not_ , allow myself to turn back into that."

The Warden's voice broke, hitched on the last few words, and then he fell silent.

Zevran stared at the silent Warden, the lowered head and the clenched fists. The rage-tainted pain was a clearly visible thing, and only the stupidest of the stupid would not be able to hear the anguish in the human's words.

 _I'd lanced a heart wound._ Regret twisted in Zevran's gut, at the words he had said out of hot anger. He would have never said those words, if he'd known that they would tear into the Warden and make those heart wounds bleed. For the Warden was indeed bleeding, deep within, and Zevran didn't know how to heal them.

"Warden." No response. Not even a bit of movement. Shifting, Zevran leaned over and placed a hand on one too-tight fist. " _Warden._ "

Slowly, the Warden's eyes opened, and then the head rose up, so Zevran could see into those eyes.

The blankness in them sent a frightened shiver through Zevran's spine.

"I…I'm sorry." He couldn't heal the wounds, but he could at least ease the pain he had caused. "I did not mean to hurt you. My words were said without thought, and I apologize."

For a few heartbeats, the Warden simply stared back with those empty eyes. Then, with a shudder, the Warden drew in a deep breath, blinked, and then sighed out, the eyes closing again.

But Zevran saw that they were alive again, no longer cold and dead.

"It's all right," the Warden said softly, eyes still closed. "I'm all right." Those eyes opened, and although there were lingering traces of pain in them, there was also a spark of amusement—and understanding. "I know you're stuck in camp until Wynne decrees otherwise; Maker knows that I'd be irritable from that as well."

Relieved that he had not caused any lasting damage, Zevran smirked and exaggeratedly rolled his eyes. "It was either that or be lectured. And I prefer to keep my eardrums intact, thank you very much."

The Warden chuckled lightly, and the last traces of pain vanished from his eyes. "Point." Zevran's hand was still over the Warden's now relaxed fist; slowly, the human's distinctly larger hand turned over, opened, and then closed, engulfing Zevran's hand. A callused thumb shifted, stroking lightly, gently, back and forth over the elf's slender fingers. All the while the Warden kept looking at Zevran, holding his gaze.

Silence stretched between them, and Zevran's senses stretched with it; he felt a part of him warm, sigh, as the thumb continued to lightly stroke over his fingers. And he wondered how would that thumb feel rubbing over his skin, how the strong hand surrounding his would feel as it caressed his arm, his chest, cruising over his belly, and then sliding lower still—

"…Zevran?"

And the Warden's voice poked the bubble of his fantasy, bursting it. "Hmm?" Drawing his mind back, he focused on the Warden. "What?"

"You're drifting. Again." The human was regarding him with a raised eyebrow. "You know, for a supposedly professional assassin, your mind has a worrying tendency to float off into the clouds somewhere and completely lose touch with what's going on around you. Or is that just the blood loss?"

…His mind did have a tendency to do that nowadays, didn't it? Zevran inwardly winced. For some reason, the Warden's mere presence was enough to completely draw his attention, and in the process he was almost unaware of anything else.

A worrying thing; given his years and years of training and experience as an assassin.

A _dangerous_ thing; given that the Crows still out there looking for him.

And if he was entirely honest with himself, a frightening thing; because he had never completely lost his head like this, not to this extent, even in the middle of climax.

A thing he had no intention of letting the Warden find out about—so he smiled, and carefully chose his words to answer the Warden's question with an incomplete truth: "Well, since most of my blood seems to have gone into my cock, and I was imagining your hand wrapped around it, I'd say that I had good reason to let my mind float, yes?"

The lurid remark had its intended effect—the Warden's eyes went as round as plates, and the human could only let out a faint-voiced "What?"

Chuckling, Zevran drew his hand out of the Warden's now-slack grip. "Oh, do not mind me, Warden." He raised his eyebrows tauntingly. "I believe you have better things to do than to attend to my needs, no?"

The Warden's mouth opened, closed, and then opened again—giving the other man the amusing look of a landed fish. "Uh…" The blush that showed up this time was rather impressive—the Warden turned pink almost entirely from the neck up. "I…uhm, yes, I should…go."

With that, the Warden once again displayed the surprising speed he'd shown several times before—in a few heartbeats he was already up and striding away from Zevran with rather unseemly haste, rounding around a tent and vanishing from Zevran's sight, while the elf's darkly delighted laughter trailed after him.

_~to be continued~_


	14. Chapter 14

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 14_

* * *

Zevran extended his arms over his head, arched his back, and stretched, coming up to his toes, then relaxing with a satisfied sigh.

It feels good to finally venture out of camp, after Wynne had (rather grudgingly) decided he was healed enough to be allowed to travel again. The past few days had been mind-numbingly dull—especially since the Warden had to leave camp often for "resource-gathering", which was his way of saying he was running errands for a bit of coin.

And now he was in the Dalish camp again, where the Warden had said he needed to do something for Wynne. The human and the elder mage were at the campfire area, speaking with the sharp-tongued elf named…Sorrel? Saren? Zevran forgot the name.

The hairs at the back of his neck prickled, just before he heard a voice speak: "Zevran, may I have a word?"

Zevran turned, saw Alistair standing just behind him, a frown on the blond man's face. "Ah, if it isn't my other favorite Grey Warden," Zevran exclaimed in mock surprise. "Is there something you need me to do?"

"No, I just want to know something. What are your intentions with him?" Alistair jerked a thumb over his shoulder, at the still-busy Warden.

 _Oh? This should be good._ "You speak of him as if he is not present. He is right over there, you know…"

"Don't dodge the question. I'm serious."

 _Judging by that frown, I'd say you're being more overprotective than being serious, no?_ Zevran chuckled. "Is this brotherly concern I detect? Or something else? Perhaps you are concerned for me, yes?"

Alistair made an irritated noise. "I am just asking what your intentions are. You did try to kill us all, remember?"

"And now I owe your fellow Warden a blood debt, as he has spared my life. It has brought us... _closer_ together." The two last words rolled off his tongue with obscene meaning, and he smiled at Alistair.

The blond man was giving him an outright glare now. "Is that a smirk? Are you smirking at me?"

"I assure you, ser, that I am not smirking." A lie—and Zevran's smile widened into a grin. "No smirking here, no."

Alistair's eyes narrowed, and Zevran saw the other man's hand clench briefly into a fist. _No doubt wishing to punch me in the face._ "Well, just...watch yourself, then. I'll be keeping an eye on you."

"And I believe that your eye is looking a little too closely at a place where it has no business looking at." The Warden had approached them, and draped an arm over Alistair's shoulders, grinning. "Not that I don't appreciate your concern, Alistair—it's rather touching, actually—but don't you think I can handle a tiny little elf on my own?"

Zevran glared at the Warden— _Tiny little elf?_ —even as Alistair gave the Warden an incredulous look. "This 'tiny little elf' is an assassin," Alistair said. "And he _did_ try to kill you."

"And he _hasn't_ tried anything after that," the Warden replied cheerfully, "which already says something, doesn't it? Not to mention that he's been a splendid part of the team so far, and he did save my life at Flemeth's."

"I'm saying he could be just trying to gain your trust to stab you in the back when he gets the chance," Alistair retorted.

"What chance? You _know_ we barely have any privacy in camp, and it's not like I can't fight back."

"But you could be…I don't know, distracted, and if he catches you alone—"

"If you really want to, Alistair, you can continue to keep an eye on Zevran and I," the Warden said. His gaze slid to Zevran, and one of his eyes slowly closed and opened in a deliberate wink, making Zevran smirk. "But I'll warn you first, my brother-in-arms—you might end up learning more about 'licking lampposts' than you'd want to."

Zevran watched with a considerable amount of amusement as Alistair paled, then blushed, and then ended up having a patchy combination of the two, as he spluttered the whole while. "Wait, _what?_ You mean you and he are—"

"In a relationship. Of sorts." The Warden raised an eyebrow. "Why? You look like your head's about to explode."

Alistair's gaze was flicking back and forth between Zevran and the Warden. "But…you…and he is…Leliana said that you two were..but I didn't think—"

"Then start thinking," the Warden flashed a sharp grin at Alistair. "Especially about keeping an eye on us. Because if you really want to get an eyeful, you'd get it soon enough."

Zevran laughed at the bald statement, even as Alistair turned purple and made a strangled sound. "All right, _all right!_ I'll leave you alone."

"Smart man." Chuckling, the Warden gave Alistair a slap on the back, resulting in a loud clash of metal. "Go help Wynne, will you? She's over there with Varathorn, getting some supplies."

Alistair glanced at Zevran, looked at the Warden, then with a shake of his head he walked away, muttering something under his breath.

Zevran watched with a raised eyebrow as the Warden's eyes followed Alistair for a while, before the Warden turned back and smirked at him. "I think you just broke his brain," Zevran commented.

"Oh, he'll get over it. Eventually." The Warden shifted, standing before Zevran, and then his voice lowered. "Did Alistair threaten you?"

"Who, me?" Zevran laughed. "No, he was just wondering about our…'relationship', as you put it."

"I see." The slight tension in the Warden's stance eased. "Good. I'd hate to have to do something if that happens."

"Mm-hmm." Zevran gave the Warden a searching look. "I'm surprised you'd admit this to Alistair."

The Warden sighed, his expression a mixture of amusement and frustration. "Well, like I mentioned, we don't have a lot of privacy, so there isn't any point in keeping the whole thing under wraps." The human glanced at Zevran. "You…don't mind, do you?"

"No," Zevran said with a shrug. "Let them speak if they wish. What we have is between you and me, yes?"

"My thoughts exactly," the Warden chuckled. Then—to Zevran's shock—the Warden's arm stole around his waist, pulling him against the taller man, and then a quick kiss was pressed his temple, before the Warden let him go.

Zevran stumbled back, caught off balance by the kiss—and the sudden leaping of his heart that came from it. Unnerved by that, he gave the Warden a glare. "What was that about?"

The grin he got in reply was distinctly untrustworthy. "No reason. Just felt like it." With a shrug, the Warden turned and headed to where Wynne and Alistair were still with Varathorn.

Zevran stared after the human, frowning in puzzlement, one hand raised to brush against the spot where warm lips had briefly pressed against his skin, and then he scowled and dropped his hand.

 _Just a kiss,_ he told himself, as he went to join the rest of the party. _Nothing to be excited about._

Except the Warden didn't stop there.

They trekked through the Brecilian Forest, trying to track down 'Aneirin', Wynne's former apprentice. The forest was much the same as the last time Zevran had walked through—dark, quiet, and strange, giving Zevran the constant impression that he was being watched by hidden eyes, setting him on edge.

And the Warden wasn't doing much better to calm his nerves.

Instead, the human was (deliberately, he was sure) doing his subtly utmost best to _tease_.

And it was _subtle;_ if it wasn't Zevran—a trained assassin whose senses were honed to be alert to anything and everything—and he wasn't so aware of the Warden, no one might have noticed it. But he was who he was, and the Warden had taken advantage of that fact.

It started with little touches, brushes, light contact that, even to an observing eye, could be easily dismissed as something expected from a group staying close together while moving through a thick forest—their shoulders brushing as the Warden moved past him, the slide of smooth armor against the elf's leather-clad legs.

And then they grew more and more explicit, again little touches that others wouldn't notice—a gentle pressure of a hand at the back at Zevran's waist, the lightest brush of metal-clad fingers over his nape.

The touches didn't stop even when they ran into a massive pack of angry bears. Zevran often chose to stay close to the Warden in fights—the human's wild, direct combat style was a good foil to his more underhanded tactics of backstabbing and crippling enemies, and the two of them ganging up and working together usually meant quick and messy kills.

Zevran knew that, and ignored the continuing—and currently extremely brief—brushes as they maneuvered around each other and their enemies.

Until the Warden's hand passed lightly over his bottom as they shifted away from a fallen bear.

Zevran froze, shocked, even as an illicit thrill shivered up his spine. The caress had gone unnoticed by the others; Wynne and Alistair were distracted, their attention focused on their enemies.

Irritated, he turned and gave the Warden an incredulous glare.

The human wore a full helm that hid his face—Zevran couldn't see what expression the Warden wore.

He did, however, hear the Warden give a dark chuckle as the human moved away and rejoined the fray.

So, the Warden was indeed playing a game.

And one that he was succeeding at—Zevran felt ready to jump out of his skin, his nerves tight and sensitive to the Warden's presence. Desire prowled and purred within him, desperately hungry for more of the slight caresses.

A vicious smile curved Zevran's lips. Unfortunately the Warden's full-body armor prevented him from retaliating—so he simply shrugged and bore with it, and made plans for revenge.

They found Aneirin, camped out not too far from the Dalish, hidden amongst the edge of the old elven ruins in the forest. Wynne was overjoyed to see her old apprentice—the mage's eyes held the sheen of tears as she thanked the Warden, her fingers trembling as she held the other man's gauntleted hands.

A heartwarming thing, really. But Zevran had other matters to think about.

Their objective accomplished, the group made haste to return to their own camp before evening fell. And the Warden kept up with the constant touches.

Zevran wasn't sure if he wanted to devour the human with his mouth, or to close his hands about the other man's throat and strangling him.

The thoughts—and his body's longing—plagued him as they finally returned to camp, and he was half-smiling and half-snarling as he stripped off his leathers and pulled on his normal clothes.

"Damn him," he muttered, and continued with various other less polite phrases as he carefully kept his armor and weapons away, and exited the tent. The tension coiling within him was on the verge of snapping—and while he now knew the Warden didn't mind being 'public' about their relationship, he highly doubted the human would appreciate being ravished in plain sight of everyone in camp.

Speaking of which…the Warden just stepped out of the larger tent, and like Zevran, he had also dressed plainly.

Zevran watched as the Warden glanced around the camp, before the human's eyes fell on him. The Warden met his gaze, caught it and held it.

Even from this distance, he felt the punch of the Warden's wolf-like grin.

Then the Warden suddenly winked, before he broke away from their too-fraught stare, turned—and strolled right out of the clearing they've made camp in, disappearing amongst the trees.

Zevran stared, disbelieving, but the wink was a clear, and unmistakable, invitation.

His body thrummed, throbbed.

Muttering an oath, he trailed after the Warden, disappearing into the trees as well.

The Warden didn't leave a very obvious track (Zevran guessed that Leliana had been giving the Warden lessons on that), but Zevran's senses seemed to have honed on the human—his feet moved silently, entirely of their own accord, seeming to know where exactly to move to.

It wasn't long before he found the Warden, leaning back against the bole of a tall tree, the relaxed stance making him seem all languidly confident male, from his long legs to his crossed arms to the sharp, intent grin on that handsome face.

"You look tense," the Warden drawled. The keen eyes swept over Zevran, from head to toe and back up again, the explicit gaze almost like a caress. The winged eyebrows rose, and a smugly satisfied light gleamed in those eyes. "Did something happen?"

The voice was innocently enquiring; the expression that went with it was definitely not.

Zevran barked out a harsh, short laugh, and he stalked over to the human, closing the distance between them. "You, my dear," he hissed as he raised his hand and curled it over the back of the Warden's head, even as the other hand grabbed the front of the Warden's tunic, "are a cruel, cruel tease."

The Warden (cheeky bastard) laughed at that, the sound full of smug gloating—and Zevran pulled the Warden's head down, simultaneously raised his own head and fastened his mouth over the human's, cutting that laugh short.

Their mouths melded, tongues mated. The Warden's arms uncrossed, then closing around Zevran, hands splaying over his back, pressing him to the hard muscled body, then swept down, over his waist, over his hips to boldly cup his bottom and squeeze. Knead, and then caress, the explicit touch sending a bolt of lust straight into his groin.

Zevran groaned into their voracious kiss, and the hand that had clutched at the Warden's tunic let go, drifting down to the hem, and with a flick slid under it, briefly rubbed against a sharp hipbone beneath the trousers before rising up and sliding over the Warden's belly.

The Warden gasped, and the hands on his arse tightened spasmodically. The skin beneath his fingers was searing hot and oddly smooth, the muscles shifting beneath that skin like bands of steel. Zevran's hands trailed up, over the corrugated muscles of the human's stomach, fingers splayed greedily, and he delighted in the tactile feast of firm, smooth skin overlaid by a light dusting of rasping, crinkly hair. The Warden shifted beneath his fingers, and made a choked sound when his fingers brushed against the side of the torso.

Zevran's brows rose—his Warden was ticklish?—and experimentally brushed again.

The Warden broke the kiss, and the sound that burst from the man's throat was distinctly a laugh, albeit a choked one. "Stop that," the Warden said, breathlessly.

A wicked grin curved Zevran's lips. He lightly drummed his fingers over that spot, and watched the Warden shiver and squirm. "Why should I? I think I like that you're ticklish."

"If you continue to tickle me, I'm going to laugh…" The Warden sucked in a breath as Zevran caressed again. "…and if I laugh—stop that!—the others will hear, and we'll have to cut this short."

A valid point; sighing, Zevran shifted his hand away, and noted with amusement that the Warden instantly relaxed when he did. "As you wish," he murmured, before he leaned in and kissed the Warden again, his hand already reaching up over the broad chest, assessing (and approving) of the powerful strength in them, before his fingers drifted to a flat nipple.

The Warden's pulled back from their kissing, and his breath hitched as Zevran circled his fingers around the nipple, felt it tighten, harden, and then he caught it between two of his fingers, lightly pinched.

Delighted in the strangled sound the Warden made.

Strong hands closed about his wrists, tightened—and suddenly he was pushed away. Before he could react, the Warden twisted, spun them around, until his back was against the tree now, the Warden looming over him.

He only caught a glimpse of those eyes flaring with hunger before the Warden swooped down and covered his lips with a ravenous mouth. With a tongue forced them wide, and kissed him without restraint.

As if the human wanted to devour him, to claim him.

To have him. In every imaginable way.

Desire roared to life as Zevran sank his hands into the Warden's hair and kissed the other man back, with equal fervor, equal need.

Their wills met, merged in a clash of fire and passion.

Of an instant blaze of fiery need.

And that need was a potent thing, turning into a compulsion that thrummed in Zevran's blood, filled his head and sent his wits spinning, leaving him behind to drown in a haze of lust that wanted, needed, _yearned_ for more.

The Warden angled his head, ruthless, relentless, deepening the kiss as his hands boldly explored Zevran's body through the barrier of his clothes, and the assassin pressed against him, arched into him, meeting him caress for caress.

Then the hands gripped his hips, lifted—a rock-hard thigh pressed between his, forcing Zevran to ride the tense muscle, and he gasped as his erection rubbed against it, the scratchy friction of his breeches only adding to the sensation.

The leg shifted, and he moaned, letting his head fall back against the tree as he let his hips buck of their own accord. Through a heavy-lidded gaze, he watched the Warden—the human's face was dark with intent, with half-closed eyes and slightly-parted, bruised lips.

The Warden was hesitant. He sensed it, in the Warden's stillness and tensed body.

Smiling languidly, he shifted his hips, let his hipbone brush against the bulge between the Warden's legs, saw the human shift and hold a breath.

"Frightened, my Warden?" he asked softly.

"…Not really." The Warden was studying his body, the slightest of frowns creasing his brow. "You're different from a woman."

Zevran snorted a laugh at that comment. "I should hope so! I know some men think of me as 'pretty', but I am definitely not a woman."

"No." A slow smile curved the Warden's lips. "Definitely not." The Warden's hands shifted from Zevran's hips, gripped his tunic, and drew it up, exposing first his stomach, and then his chest, hairless like most elves and decorated with swirling, snake-like curls of dark ink. Keeping the tunic pinned up with one hand, the Warden lightly traced the tattoos, following them over Zevran's torso, the light touch making the elf writhe and wish the touch could be firmer. "I like these," the human murmured. "Do you really have them all over?"

Zevran chuckled. "You'll see soon enough." He reached up with one hand, slid his palm over the Warden's nape, speared his fingers into soft thick hair and drew the other man's lips to his. "Or now, if you prefer it."

He breathed the words, and then sealed the Warden's lips and kissed the human, deeply, sliding his tongue boldly into the pliant mouth.

The Warden laughed darkly, and then returned the favor, the other man's mouth, lips and tongue doing things to Zevran's that made the elf purr with pleasure. A strong arm slid around his waist as the Warden stepped close, bringing their bodies flush together, their hips grinding against each other's, and Zevran let himself spin, senses attuned, alert as the firestorm of pleasure that both of them had wrought together drew him in—

A twig snapped.

Zevran jerked back from the kiss. Turned his head, looked.

Sensed the Warden do the same.

They strained their ears, but heard nothing else beyond the normal sounds of woodland.

Zevran was all but swaying as he turned to look back at the Warden. His breathing sounded ragged and rough in the silence. The Warden was openly panting. He could feel the heart pounding in the other man's chest, pressed against his; not doubt the Warden sensed the beat of his own heart as well.

He met the Warden's widened eyes, saw a different kind of lust stir within them—the kind that asked for pained screams and spilled blood. And Zevran felt his own bloodlust surge up, alert and ready for a fight.

"Darkspawn?" Zevran mouthed.

The Warden tilted his head, frowned. "Not sensing any," the human soundlessly said back.

But the woods and the road held other dangers beside darkspawn. The encounter with bears in the Brecilian forests was a good example.

They broke their embrace, drew back, their bodies tensed in preparation for fight or flight, their senses stretched out and waiting. Watching.

Another twig snapped. There was a rustling of leaves, followed by silence…

…which was then broken by a curious whine as Anlan's head poked out from between the nearby bush.

Both of them stared at the mabari's bright, inquiring gaze, and then simultaneously slumped with relief.

The Warden half laughed, half groaned as he stepped back from Zevran, then squatted down and beckoned the panting mabari to him. "What are you doing here?" he said, scratching the hound behind its perked ears. "Were you looking for us?"

Anlan barked.

"Yeeaaap, I thought so." Rolling his eyes, the Warden straightened and gave Zevran a helpless smile. "Looks like our presence—or lack thereof—was noted at camp."

Zevran scoffed, folding his arms over his chest and staring at the dog. "And they send your pet to look for us?"

"Anlan is imprinted to me—he'd probably be able to find me even if I crossed the Amaranthine Sea and left him behind," the Warden said with a shrug, and then grinned. "Also, he's probably the only one who genuinely wouldn't give a second thought about barging in should we be, err, busy."

Anlan barked and wagged his tail.

"Of course," Zevran said, resigned. He pushed off the tree, straightening his own clothes, and mentally willing the hardness between his legs to go away. "I think we should be heading back, yes? Before the others decide to send a search party."

"And we wouldn't want that," the Warden added.

Chuckling, Zevran went to the Warden's side, glanced down at Anlan as he did. "You really have a perfect sense of timing," he remarked wryly.

Anlan wagged his tail again. Of course the mabari would see that as a compliment.

"That he does," the Warden said in equally dry agreement from behind him. Then Zevran felt the Warden's hand brush his neck, lifting his hair away from his nape.

Felt the Warden plant an open-mouthed kiss against the exposed skin.

Zevran shivered at the intimate touch, even as he smiled at the boldness of it. "And what was that about?"

"Just felt like it," the Warden's voice murmured. Then he felt the lips trace against the shell of his ear, felt the tongue trail over the edge.

Felt teeth lightly nip at the pointed tip.

"Also," the Warden whispered, his breath hot against Zevran's skin, "to let you know that we would have gone further if Anlan had not interrupted."

_Oh, Maker._

Suppressing another shiver, Zevran swallowed past the lump in his throat, then turned to give the Warden a grin. "I'll keep that in mind."

The Warden grinned back with his wolf's grin. "Make sure it _stays_ in your mind."

 _Oh, I think you've done enough to make sure of that._ Zevran chuckled, then—giving in to impulse—leaned in and gave the Warden a brief kiss.

Their lips held, clung together, and then they both pulled back, wanting more but knowing this wasn't the time or the place.

Entirely in accord with one another, they both headed back for camp, with Anlan leading the way and the Warden beside the dog, Zevran trailing along quietly just behind the Warden.

The mabari looked up at the Warden, and barked.

"Hm?" The Warden looked down at the mabari's curious eyes. "What is it?"

The mabari briefly looked at Zevran, looked back at his master, and barked again, wagging his tail.

"What about Zevran?"

More barking, and the mabari pranced about, tail wagging.

"Oh, really?" The drawling voice was deeply amused, and the Warden chuckled. "Yes, Anlan, I quite like him too."

Anlan barked again, all but a-quiver with happiness.

"I'm so glad you think so."

Zevran decided he probably would never understand Fereldens and their dogs.

_~to be continued~_

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'ed chapter; all mistakes are my own.

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 15_

* * *

Denerim reminded Zevran of Antiva City in many ways: the crowd, the noise, the buildings all piled up against each other like sores on a street whore, the refuse of garbage rotting in poorly-cleaned drains.

And like how he'd felt in Antiva often enough, there was that constant sense of eyes hidden in the walls, always watching. Although Zevran highly suspected that the prickling at the back of his neck was not a usual part of being in Denerim until very recently.

Considering the presence of the tall man striding alongside him, he was sure he knew why there were eyes in the first place.

"I think we are being watched, my dear Warden." Zevran murmured, as they weaved through the bustling marketplace.

"I'm not surprised." The Warden's tone was dry, his expression almost bored—but the eyes were keenly observing, studying, learning. "Considering the number of posters with my face on it that we've seen pasted on the walls, I'm more surprised that there aren't any guards around trying to climb up my arse by now."

"Perhaps your reputation simply preceded you," Morrigan remarked, strolling just behind them. "'Twould not be surprising that your tales have been spread far and wide across these lands—especially given that you've already gathered such a sizable army. I doubt that many of these men would dare take arms against you, fools though they may be."

"How gratifying." The Warden smiled, without any humor. "Unfortunately, this would also mean that Loghain would know where I am and what I am doing." He let out a long-suffering sigh. "At any rate, we best keep an eye out, not unless we want to end up dead in some filthy back alley." The Warden glanced back at Alistair. "Any sign of your sister's house yet?"

"…No." Alistair sounded…well, both relieved and disappointed.

"I still think we are wasting time looking for a servant girl in a city full of them," Morrigan said, giving Alistair a nasty look. "This woman may not even be alive any longer, and we would be better off chasing butterflies in winter."

Alistair halted in his tracks, giving Morrigan a fearsome glare. "Is looking out for family so hard to understand for you?" he snapped.

 _Oh, this looks to be interesting._ Zevran lightly placed his hand on the Warden's shoulder, halting the tall human, even while he watched as Morrigan crossed her arms over her chest, the movement pushing her creamy-looking breasts together, and returned Alistair's glare with a scowl.

"Family," Morrigan replied haughtily, "is meaningless. Only power is. Unless your sibling can contribute something useful against the Blight, I believe you are wasting your time—and more importantly, the _Warden's_ time—trying to look her."

Alistair scoffed. "Just because you're willing to kill your mother doesn't mean everyone should be following your way."

Zevran glanced at the Warden, wondering how the human was reacting to all of this. Unlike him, the Warden had been watching the two of them sniping at each other with an expression that grew more and more angry, and now he let out a groan. "Oh, Maker preserve us, not _this_ again."

If Alistair or Morrigan heard the Warden's words, they were both too angry at each other to notice. Morrigan scoffed and looked down her nose at Alistair.

"'Twas either kill or be killed. Flemeth was prepared to take over my body for her own survival, and if there was anything she taught me that had proved useful, 'twas that one should protect one's own survival first and foremost."

"Maker's breath, why am I even arguing with you?" Alistair threw his hands up in exasperation. "I should've known a person raised by an abomination would turn out to be such a nasty piece of work."

Zevran sense the Warden grew tense with the barb that Alistair and Morrigan flung at each other, each one sharper and more hostile than the previous one. The handsome face was strained, and the lips were compressed into a tight line as the argument went on.

The arguing pair seemed to not notice the impending explosion, however. Golden eyes blazed as Morrigan glared at Alistair. "A nasty piece of work, is it?"

"Yes, you are. You're just as much an abomination as Flemeth was—I can excuse her for her demon's nature, but you seemed to have been born with the soul of one."

"You, Alistair, are a soft-headed and soft-hearted fool raised by a Chantry that refuses to see beyond its own narrow viewpoint!"

"At least I know what it means to be a person," was Alistair's heated reply. "You're just a cruel, heartless, barb-tongued apostate!"

"Better having no heart than having a lack of wit!"

"Then perhaps I should cut yours out then, since you seem to not give a damn about it?"

"You can try, Alistair, and I will boil what brains you have within your own skull."

" _Enough_ , both of you." The Warden's voice was like a thunderclap. He glared at both brunette witch and blond Warden. "Save your grudges for the darkspawn or bandits or whatever nasty things we run into. This is neither the time, nor the place for the two of you to get into a pissing contest."

"But she—" "He is—"

"I said _enough._ " The Warden was practically roaring, and he punctuated his words with a hand slicing through the air. _"_ Both of you are in _my_ team, and _I_ —" he jerked a thumb at himself "—am your leader, which means _I_ make the damn decisions here. And right now, we're going to look for Alistair's sister, and let him get whatever worry he has about her out of his mind so he can focus on the Blight."

"I _still_ say we are wasting time," Morrigan said.

"Are we?" the Warden said quietly, but no less fiercely. "This is his family we are talking about, and that is important to Alistair, just as power is important to _you_. Since we have to look for this Brother Genitivi here in Denerim anyway, this little search for Alistair's sister is but a quick little detour." He gave Morrigan a sharp look, just as she opened her mouth to argue. "And before you say something about taking time to get rid of personal annoyances, remember what I did to get your mother's grimoire for you."

Resentment—and guilt—flashed in Morrigan's eyes as she clicked her jaw shut.

"As for you, Alistair," the Warden glared at the blond man. "I have no doubt of your integrity and your goodness, but Morrigan is entirely entitled to her own opinions, and since it has served her well, I see no reason for us to change it for her."

"But she's _evil!_ How could—"

"She is a strong, powerful mage who has managed to survive in a world where mages are viewed with suspicion, if not outright hostility," the Warden pointed out. "That alone is an admirable feat, and I respect her for that. If she is ruthless, circumstances more or less made her that way, and that is no fault of hers. I know she doesn't always approve of my actions, and I don't always approve of hers, so we agree to disagree—something you would do well to learn, Alistair, before I decide that I should take that self-righteous stick out of your arse and beat you over the head with it."

Alistair frowned, and Zevran could swear the man was _pouting_ , but the blond crossed his arms and glanced at his feet. "All right, all right, I'll leave her alone."

The Warden nodded, very slightly, and then looked at Morrigan. "And you, Morrigan?"

She also crossed her arms (Zevran privately thinks she should do that more often), but unlike Alistair she chose to roll her eyes skywards. "Oh, _fine._ I'll try not to hurt Alistair's manly feelings."

"Bitch," Alistair muttered under his breath.

"Fool," Morrigan retorted.

They glared at each other for a tension-fraught moment, and then both looked away from each other with near identical harrumphs. Zevran stifled the laugh that threatened to emerge from his throat.

"Such a wonderful sight, to see all of us working together so _peacefully_ ," the Warden remarked, his casual voice at odds with the clear irritation on his face. "Now, if both of you are quite done, let us continue with our little search, shall we?"

Morrigan made an inarticulate noise. Alistair's reply was an equally uncommunicative grunt.

Apparently that was enough agreement for the Warden; the man simply nodded and turned on his heel, continuing towards the market square.

Chuckling, Zevran went after the Warden, keeping up with the long-legged, ground-eating strides easily with his light, nimble feet. "Feeling your patience being stretched a little thin, _querido?_ " he asked.

"A light breeze is enough to break it, I think," the Warden muttered.

"Mmm…" Zevran glanced over his shoulder at the man and woman following behind them, at how they shot little glares at each other. He lowered his voice and murmured to the Warden: "You know, I don't think all of that arguing has its roots in hatred, if you get my meaning."

"Noticed that, didn't you?" the Warden said drily. "Sometimes I wonder if their rubbing-each-other-the-wrong-way actually stems from want-to-rub-each-other-in-naughty-ways."

Zevran grinned. "You know what I think you should do? Lock them both in a cell, and hold on to the key until they resolve their tensions, one way or another."

A smile curved the Warden's lips. "A novel idea, but I'd hate to clean up the mess that ensues—be it blood, or other bodily fluids, if you know what I mean."

"You have a point there," Zevran said with a laugh.

"Uh…Warden?"

They halted at Alistair's voice, and turned; saw Alistair had stopped in front of an old, run-down house with large sheets of linen hanging on washing lines outside it.

"Let me guess," the Warden said, moving to stand beside Alistair. "You've found it?"

Alistair nodded, still staring at the house. "That's…my sister's house. I'm almost sure of it, this is…yes, this is the right address." The blond man's voice was stammering. "She could be inside." He looked at the Warden. "Could we…go and see?"

The Warden arched a brow. "'We', Alistair?" he asked. "Wouldn't you rather meet her on your own?"

Alistair was _sweating_ , Zevran noted with amusement. And when he spoke it was a little too fast, his words almost running on top of each other."Do I seem a little nervous? I am. I really don't know what to expect. I'd like you to be there with me, if you're willing. Or we could…leave, I suppose. We really don't have time to pay a visit, do we? Maybe we should go."

And all in more or less one breath, too. Zevran hid a smile behind one hand. Morrigan looked unimpressed. The Warden was smirking, looking amused by it all. "Fine," he said, "let's see if she's home."

Alistair looked a little excited, nervous smile notwithstanding. "Will she even know who I am?" he said, as if thinking aloud. "Does she even know I _exist?_ My _sister._ That sounds very strange...'sister.' ' _Siiiissster.'_ "

The Warden was grinning now, but he said nothing, simply raised his eyebrows.

Alistair noticed the Warden's amusement, and flushed slightly. "Hmm. Now I'm babbling. Maybe we should go. Let's go. Let's just…go." He gestured at the door.

"After you…" The Warden made a little bow, one hand extended to the door while the other was placed behind, low on his back. The grin on his face sharpened. "…my prince."

Alistair glared at the Warden. "Maker, you will _never_ live that down, will you?"

"Not while I still draw breath, no." Laughing, the Warden grabbed Alistair by the shoulders, spun him towards the door, and practically pushed the other Grey Warden to the door. "Come on; let's go see this sister of yours before your brain melts into a puddle of nerves."

"I'm so pleased that you have such confidence in me," Alistair muttered, while the Warden reached around to open the door.

The Warden's reply to that was to raise a booted foot and cheerfully kick Alistair in the back, sending the blond stumbling through the now-open doorway with a yelp.

"Don't break your head, now!" the Warden called out gleefully. He looked over his shoulder, at both Morrigan and Zevran. "Wait out there," he said with a smirk. "We'll be back in a while." Then he walked through the doorway, and shut the door behind him with a loud slam.

Both Morrigan and Zevran stared at the door, then turned and looked at each other.

"So…just you and I, hmm?" Zevran waggled his brows. "Perhaps we should do something to bide the time?"

"I am quite content imagining how it would be like to cut off your ears, thank you," she said frostily.

"Oh, how exciting!" He laughed. "But such sinister glares do you a disservice, dear Morrigan. Yours should be a face that smiles."

The look she gave him could cut through solid stone. "Again with the flattery, elf? Do you use the same sort of words on the Warden?"

Zevran raised his brows. "I beg pardon?"

"You know what I am talking about." Morrigan's lips curved in a cynical smile. "That is wily of you, Zevran."

"What is so wily of me, o magical temptress?" Zevran said with a smirk.

Morrigan gestured casually to the doorway that the Warden had disappeared through. "Getting in the good graces of the one who decides whether you live or die. Not to mention the one who can protect you against your former comrades."

Zevran's smile was mocking as he arched an eyebrow at her. "And I am supposed to believe you are here because of a...sense of patriotism, perhaps?"

"Ha! Hardly that," she scoffed.

 _And isn't that an interesting thing?_ He leaned with one shoulder propped against the wall of the house, crossing his arms and legs as he stared at Morrigan. "We all have our reasons for doing what we do," he said quietly. "Mine happen to come with a set of strong hands."

She frowned at that, mirroring his posture as she also leaned against the wall of the house. "So you do not fear the Crows at all?"

Zevran chuckled. "I think of it more as my desire to leave them far exceeds the fear I possess of them."

She looked skeptical at that remark—her eyebrows shot up to her hairline. "You think the Grey Wardens will give you safe harbor once all this is done? Surely you are not so naive."

"I am willing to take my chances," he drawled, taking the gloves off his hands and hooking them in his belt.

"And if you are wrong?"

"Then I will be dead," he replied, his tone matter-of-fact while he idly checked his fingernails. "One does not do what I do and fear death so very greatly." He frowned as he noticed one of them had chipped, made a mental note to file it out later.

"There are fates worse than death."

"And one of them is being unable to choose which master you serve." He gave her a smile that held no humor in it. "Trust me, my dear; I am well pleased with my current direction."

"Hmph. I find that hard to believe."

"Do you?" He narrowed his eyes at her. "Let me put it this way…you hate the Circle, do you not?"

"I do not _hate_ the Circle as such," she said contemptuously. "What I hate is that mages would choose to keep themselves on a leash, with no freedom and no will. They are forced, from a young age, to follow the rules of the Chantry who fears their talents and therefore subjugates them."

"So you are saying that they are cursed from a tender age to live by the will of those who hold their 'leash', as it were?"

"'Tis exactly that. What game are you playing at, Zevran?"

He chuckled at her suspicious tone. "Well, my dear, I'll have you know that the Crows are not so different in that regard. They keep a tight rein on their assassins, and to them we are but commodities, bound by their rules and their will. A gilded cage, and I have resented that—the lack of freedom—for a long time. So for me to leave them and to follow the Warden…" He shrugged. "I am more willing to die—or face something worse than death—before I lose a freedom I have only so recently discovered." He raised his eyebrows at her. "We are not so different, in that regard, don't you think so?"

She was frowning now, her lips pursed and a little line drawn between her brows. The woman really was quite beautiful, he thought, but such a shame about the attitude.

"…I suppose you have a point," she said grudgingly. She glared at him. "That does not mean I trust you."

He grinned at her. "Tsk, such a shame. And here I am wondering if we might actually get a chance to make love to each other."

"I'd sooner bathe in a cesspool," she replied, although she looked amused. "And are you not pursuing the Grey Warden? Or was he pursuing you? I wonder…because either way, I doubt that man would like to share."

Zevran laughed. "We are hardly committed to each other, my dear; what we have is strictly for pleasure's sake and nothing else."

"Really?" Morrigan smiled at him. "A most practical arrangement. It seems that you are not entirely foolish after all."

Zevran was saved from having to reply to that—right after Morrigan's sentence was done, the door opened, and the two Wardens walked out of it. Alistair looked…Zevran narrowed his eyes. 'Shocked' was the word that came to mind. The Warden, on the other hand, looked distinctly grim, with a good mixture of resignation and cynical amusement.

"Well," Alistair commented, "that was…not what I expected. To put it lightly." His voice was disbelieving. " _This_ is the family that I've been wondering about all my life? That _shrew_ is my sister?" Outrage was creeping into his words. "I can't believe it."

The Warden just snorted. The sound, and the disgust in it, was an eloquent expression of what the Warden thought about Alistair's words—or rather, Alistair's sister, Zevran would assume. _What exactly happened in there?_

Alistair's face fell at the sound the Warden had made. "I…I guess I was expecting her to accept me without question. Isn't that what family is supposed to do? I…I feel like a complete idiot."

Morrigan made a sound like a hastily-stifled laugh. _And you just realized that? What a surprise_ , her expression seemed to say.

The Warden ignored Morrigan, or didn't notice—he only gave Alistair a level stare. No mockery, no condemnation, but there wasn't any comfort or sympathy in that gaze either.

"Everyone is out for themselves," he said, and the voice was as neutral as his expression. "You should learn that."

"Yes, I suppose you're right. I should." Alistair sounded incredibly weary. "Let's just go. I don't want to talk about this anymore."

The Warden inclined his head, silently accepting, before he turned to look at Morrigan and Zevran. "Well, we're done here. Let's go look for Genitivi," he said.

Sniffing, Morrigan straightened and swayed over to Alistair's side. "Your sibling was not what you expected, I take it?" she drawled.

"Oh, shut up, Morrigan."

"As you wish," she said with a chuckle.

Zevran smirked at the byplay as he shifted to the Warden's side. "Am I right in guessing that it was not a pleasant reunion?" he asked the human quietly.

"To put it lightly, yes," the Warden murmured back, before shrugging. "Long story short: his half-sister turned out to be an insufferably greedy bitch carrying a grudge against what Alistair is and wants nothing to do with him."

 _Ouch._ Zevran winced, feeling a pang of sympathy. "Mmm, yes, I can see how that would be unpleasant." He gave the Warden a considering look. "And yet, you don't sound too unhappy about that."

"Oh, it's a shame, really, that Alistair had to face such an unpleasant truth about his so-called 'family'," the Warden replied. "But it's a good thing as well—at least Alistair would learn to be a little more pragmatic about things, or so I hope." The look in the Warden's eyes was distinctly jaded. "That idealism of his is a good thing, but it is somewhat misplaced. The world is a crude, dirty place, and he sometimes forgets that the muck is _everywhere._ "

The cynical remark made Zevran chuckle. "True, true." Deciding that they've enough of this subject, he glanced around the main market square. "Ah, the bustle of a market district! The pickpocket's home away from home!"

"Uh-huh." The Warden was grinning. "I'm curious, though. You're trained as a rogue, right? Do you pickpocket much?"

"Oh, now and then, but I prefer to simply sneak around and steal things that are not attached to people, and only if things are desperate." He shrugged as they maneuvered their way past a group of chattering women—nobles, he guessed, from their dress and demeanor. "I'm better at stealth, anyhow."

"I see…" There was a playful light in the Warden's eyes as he swung a little pouch in circles around his finger by its strings...

Wait.

Zevran stared at the pouch (a pretty thing of dark red velvet with delicate gold embroidery, and _far_ too feminine to be something the Warden actually owned), and then turned to look at the Warden. "Did that…did you just—"

"Just what?" The Warden looked gleeful as he swung the pouch in the air and caught it in his hand.

"I don't think _that_ ," Zevran said, pointing to the pouch, "belonged to you, my dear."

"Well, it does now." The Warden pulled the strings open and peered into it. "Let's see…some silvers, some gold sovereigns…ooh, I think we have some _diam—_ "

"Shh!" Zevran clapped a hand over the Warden's mouth, glancing around furtively. "Don't gloat in public, unless you want to be accused; or worse, get pickpocketed right back."

"Mmph." The Warden reached up, closing a hand over Zevran's...

...and Zevran felt the lips beneath his hand part, felt a wet tongue lightly trail a circle over his palm.

Felt the touch send a jolt through him, kindling a fire low in his belly.

He sucked in a breath, jerked his hand back like the touch was from a hot iron.

The human was grinning madly at him, the eyes gleaming in an entirely too-knowing way. "All right, all right, no more gloating..."

Zevran snorted (cheeky man, acting as if he didn't just do what he just did), but he smiled back. "That was very smooth work with your hands, though, I didn't even notice…where did you learn that?"

"Oh, picked it up in my youth, mostly for fun." The Warden laughed wickedly. "And sneak a grope or two, if the mark is pretty. Then I started using it to steal keys to bedchambers, for obvious reasons," he said with a wink. "After that, Leliana taught me a few tricks while we were on the road, since it's a useful skill for supplementary income."

Zevran raised an eyebrow. "A nobleman _and_ a pickpocket; an odd combination."

"What can I say; I am a man of myriad talents. I'm just _that_ awesome."

Zevran laughed at that—and broke off mid-laugh, stopping in his tracks.

A chill washed through him, prickling his instincts and making his fingers reflexively twitch in a sudden urge to reach for his dagger.

Keeping his face and stance casual, he turned his head, looked around the marketplace—

And saw a man watching him.

An older man, slightly overweight and dressed in the clothes of a well-to-do merchant, his face unremarkable and pleasant-looking, his scalp holding very little hair left. But the _eyes_ —sharp, piercing, like the finest of knives.

As sharp as the knife Zevran was perfectly willing to bet the man carried about on his person somewhere.

Mentally swearing several vile epithets of choice, he turned to the Warden—and found the human was watching him closely. Oh, his face was casual, the smile perfectly relaxed, but Zevran could see the eyes were studying him.

"Wait, why are we stopping?" Alistair said, catching up to them with Morrigan trailing behind. He was frowning at Zevran, then at the Warden. "Something the matter?"

Zevran glanced back; the 'merchant' had turned away, however, and was no longer looking at him, instead speaking with a person who appeared to be browsing his wares. But there was no mistaking that particular man, not when Zevran's life depended on it.

_What is HE doing here?_

"I think we best go on our business, quickly," he said with a lightness that he didn't feel. "A city is so very dangerous, no? Full of cutthroats and thieves hiding in dark corners—I find myself craving for the relative safety of being on the road right now."

He wasn't sure the Warden could read between his lines—and was pleasantly surprised when the Warden's eyes hardened, grew more alert.

"A wise decision. And we've wasted enough time, I believe." The Warden picked up his pace, making a beeline for a road leading out of the main square. Then, in a low voice, for Zevran's ears only: "What was that?"

"There is a Crow associate in the marketplace," Zevran whispered back. "I recognized him, and I think he recognized me as well."

"…Blood and damnation," the Warden swore softly. "One of those sent after you?"

"I don't know," Zevran replied honestly, "and I'm not in a hurry to find out."

The Warden scowled. "I see. Damn, that's not good. We'll get out of here after we see Genitivi."

Zevran nodded, following on the Warden's heels.

He'd told Morrigan he was willing to risk death for his freedom. It did not mean that he wanted to die so easily, and right now he _really_ had no intention of letting his life go.

With luck, he might not have to.

_~to be continued~_


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'ed; all mistakes are my own.

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 16_

* * *

"No."

"But—"

"I said, no."

"It said—"

"No, means no. So…no."

"But they—"

"Which part of 'NO' do you not understand, hm?"

"It's just a bloody _note!_ "

"Sent by a Crow!" Zevran stepped forward and shoved the Warden in the chest, making the taller man stumble back (actually he would usually poke in arguments such as these, but poking a finger at heavy veridium plate isn't exactly the wisest of ideas). "And may I remind you that _you_ are a wanted man, and _I_ am just as wanted as you are, if not more, by these men."

The Warden glared at Zevran. "And I not only evaded being _assassinated_ by you, Ser-Self-Proclaimed-Best-of-the-Crows, I also have gained more than enough experience since then! And you are under _my_ protection now."

Zevran made a sound like an overboiling kettle and threw his hands up in the air. "A few months fighting unskilled darkspawn out in the open is worth nothing when you have to face trained assassins in close quarters!"

The Warden scoffed. "You're just being paranoid."

"And _you_ are being _reckless!_ "

Zevran really wished his voice did not get as loud as it did, but he was really starting to get truly angry—a rare thing for him—and the Warden's stubbornness was not being helpful at all.

Thank the Maker that they are in a relatively quiet alley, just behind the Denerim Chantry—their only audience was a blond-haired man and a brunette woman.

Both were leaning against the walls of the Chantry compound nearby and were watching the argument with avid interest.

The Warden had pinched the bridge of his nose, the eyes squeezing shut. "Look," he said in an almost-calm voice, "all it said was to go to the Gnawed Noble Tavern and go to a particular room to discuss business opportunities. What could possibly go wrong?"

Zevran's eyebrows shot up. "Warden, do you remember the last time you said those particular words? I believe it has something to do with a witch in the middle of a swamp, and you almost dying and I saving your life."

The Warden's eyes narrowed; his lips curled in a snarl. "That was _then_ , this is _now._ And unlike then, now we actually do have some idea of what we are up against!"

"Do you? Do you, really?" Zevran hissed. "You have not grown up amongst them. You have not seen what kind of things they are capable of."

"Isn't that precisely why _you_ are here? To _warn_ me, maybe, if it is indeed a trap?"

"You are _impossible!_ " Feeling like the blood in his head was about to burst into steam out of his ears, Zevran whirled at the pair lounging against the wall. "And why aren't the two of you arguing with your leader against doing something suicidal?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe because you appear to be handling it well enough?" Alistair drawled, sounding distinctly amused.

"'Twould seem, Alistair," Morrigan commented, "that our leader and the assassin have reached a deadlock. Perhaps we should intervene?"

"Go ahead, if you like. I have _no_ intention of getting in the way should daggers or fists start flying."

Morrigan smiled at the blond man. "Surely your thick skin would be more than enough to withstand such injuries, yes?"

"Very funny. But to honest, I think the Warden does have a point—we're more than capable of taking care of ourselves." Alistair shrugged. "If worst comes to worst, Morrigan can just blast their minds into a scrambled mess before anything _really_ bad happens."

"I am so _pleased_ to hear you have such confidence in me."

"Enough," the Warden said, sounding incredibly tired. "You two—" He pointed at Alistair and Morrigan. "—please stay there for a while and try not to rip each other's throats out. I'm going to have a private word with Zevran."

And before Zevran could argue about _that_ , the Warden's hand had closed about his wrist, and in an all-too-familiar manner he found himself dragged away, further down the alley and around the back of the Chantry. And then he was pulled, swung around—although this time he'd anticipated it, and didn't stumble so much as he allowed himself to be propelled to the cold stone of the wall.

He caught himself, hands bracing against the wall, then spun around, his eyes blazing. "What are you— _mfffph!_ "

Hard hands bracketed his head; warm lips closed, moved demandingly over his, hot tongue swooping in and plundering the depths of his mouth, taking his words away and replacing them with molten desire.

His hands had risen on their own imperative, fingers winding through thick silken locks and tightening, holding the head over his steady—and before he even realized it he was kissing back, his tongue tangling with the Warden's, and gave into the hot temptation of the man holding him, kissing him, and he demanded, incited, invited more.

The Warden was laughing softly, breathlessly, when he pulled back, breaking the contact of their mouths. "Damn, you're a feisty one when you're pissed off, aren't you?" The human's eyes were sparkling with humor as he looked down at Zevran, and the winged brows rose faintly. "But you've shut up, at least."

Zevran had been scrambling for his wits—blown away by a too-hot kiss—and now he stared back at the Warden, eyes narrowed, but his lips curved. "You said you wanted a word?"

"Actually, I have several words, and more. But a question first—" The Warden's face sobered. "Why are you so against me going to meet with this Crow?"

_Why?_

A good question; and one that Zevran couldn't honestly answer.

When the messenger boy had came to the Warden just as they were leaving Denerim—having found no Brother Genitivi is his home and following a lead given by the assistant Weylon—he had thought it odd, but felt no urgency about it. But when the Warden opened the note, and read it aloud to them…

Cold fear had gripped him then, a fear unlike any he had felt before.

And when the Warden announced that they are to turn around and head to the tavern instead of leaving, that fear suddenly blazed into something bordering panic, and he'd blurted out "No, we are not going there" before he even realized the words had formed in his head.

After that…well, Zevran had let anger race through him, something else he had never felt before—he was never one prone to that kind of hot emotion, and his years of training had all but stamped those expressions out.

But the idea of the Warden going to see a known Crow for an unknown reason had made him see red.

And wasn't that an interesting thing?

_One does not do what I do and fear death so very greatly_ , he had told Morrigan. And it was true; he had long accepted his eventual death, knowing that it would be long before his body's natural death and likely to be violently gruesome.

But that fear he had felt was not for his own death, but for the human whom he'd pledged to follow. The thought of seeing those bright, lively eyes fading, the life within them leaching away as blood spurted from a deeply-sliced throat—

_Bright eyes, wet and gleaming with the sheen of tears, running down a sharp-boned face pale with fear and horror._

_A broken whisper, the harsh words like shards of glass lancing though him: "Please, Zevran, I love you, you know I love you, I have not betrayed you, or anyone—"_

_The slice of a dagger, and blood spilling out of a slender throat, the too-bright red splashing, leaching out, as eyes that once held the brilliant spark of wicked intelligence dulled, glazing over as death slid in and claimed the soul of the one that had held his heart._

_And his heart was cold, cold stone as he spat—_

Memory overlaid imagination and swirled, intertwined, and the elven face was replaced by a human one, and all he could think about was _no no no not again NEVER AGAIN_ as a cold chill settled over him at the thought of the Warden's death because of who he was, _what_ he was, and why was that thought so unsettling to him?

He did not actually _care_ about the Warden's life…did he?

And now that Warden was looking at him, waiting for an answer to his question, an answer that Zevran couldn't find it in his heart to understand.

So he lied, as he had lied so many times before about so many things: "I do not wish to put myself in danger, not when I've worked so hard to evade the Crows."

The keen eyes studied him, searched his own, and he kept his face carefully neutral, lips lightly curved in a smile and only allowing his thoughts on escaping the Crows float at the front of his mind, in his eyes, while he crushed everything else he felt into a little box at the back of his mind, locked it shut, and threw away the key.

"…I see." The words were quiet, and nothing in the Warden's voice or expression betrayed the human's thoughts. The human drew back, until he was an arm's length away.

Zevran blew out a breath he never realized he was holding, and pushed himself off the wall, looking at the Warden, who was watching him, the strong arms crossed over his broad chest.

Then the Warden reached out, forefinger and thumb lightly holding his chin, tilting his head up so that the only thing he could do was look up and into too-piercing eyes that seemed to always see too much of what Zevran tried to hide.

"Allow me to say this," the Warden said. "You, having sworn an oath to me, are _my man_. And _because_ of that, you are under my protection, and I will not let harm come to you. So trust me, just as I have trusted you."

Zevran blinked. The Warden had spoken in a tone that brooked no argument—that of a lord to his servant.

So why did his own heart leap so happily at the words, and the arrogant possessiveness behind them?

Ignoring the _pitter-patter_ of his pulse, he laughed and shrugged. "Ah, well, if you say so," he said lightly. "You were always one to choose your own path."

The Warden smiled, a soft smile that sent Zevran's heart (the stupid thing!) jumping again, and gave Zevran a quick, grateful kiss. "Thank you." One of these days, Zevran would have to take that heart of his and give it a proper kick. He did _not_ need it to act irrationally, not now, not ever.

The Warden had stepped back, still smiling, and inclined his head. "We'll see what this 'Master Ignacio' wants, and if he's offering something that could help us, financially or otherwise, we'll consider it. If they turn hostile, we kill them. Is that agreeable?"

Zevran pondered the words, decided that there was not a lot he could do to prevent the Warden from going to see Ignacio, and smiled, a little too sharply. "It is."

"That settles it, then." The Warden shifted, frowned, and looked around the alley. Quiet, dark, and narrow—and very isolated, since it led to a very obvious dead end just a little further down.

Zevran highly doubted that people often passed this route, if at all. The Warden had made a good choice when he dragged Zevran here: it was a good place for a private conversation—or, his mind readily supplied, other more _intimate_ activities.

The Warden apparently came to that same conclusion; a very wide grin spread across that handsome face as he turned to look at Zevran, and his eyes now held a wicked gleam that forced the elf to suppress a shiver of excitement.

But he couldn't—and didn't—suppress an answering grin on his own face.

"Perhaps," the Warden said in a low growl as he reached for Zevran, "there is a bit of time left before Alistair and Morrigan come to killing blows, don't you think so?"

"Perhaps," Zevran echoed, smirking, allowing those hands to grip his waist and pull him to the armored body, while his own arms rose and wound about the Warden's neck. "Enough time for a few more words, yes?"

"Oh, screw the bloody words," the Warden muttered, and then his lips came down on Zevran's.

Crushed their lips together, and the Warden's tongue swept over Zevran's lower lip, then surged into an already open, willing mouth, and the elf took the human's blatant claim, gloried in it.

Then met the Warden's hunger and gave it back, kissed him back. Met the thrusting tongue with his own tongue, engaged the Warden's clear expertise with his own brand of experience. Fanned the flames rising between them, let the pleasure kindle as easily as it always had between them, let it rise and then drag them both down.

Until they were both heated and wanting, until they were panting and clutching at each other with desperate hunger.

A hunger that, unfortunately, cannot be sated here and now.

Drawing back to safe—sane—ground was an effort for both of them. Zevran sensed the Warden's reluctance as they both, step by step, degree by slow degree, reined their respective desires, and drew back from the brink of the furnace, before both of them completely lost control of where this dance was headed. When their lips finally parted, they remained for an instant, their heads close, their breaths mingling. Then Zevran lifted his head, and the Warden did the same, blinking at the elf.

They were both breathing raggedly; gazes met, briefly held. Zevran's lips throbbed; his hands had sunk into the Warden's hair, while the other man's hand clutched tightly at his shoulders.

They both held still, caught in the heated moment, both very well aware of the heat, the beat of their hearts. More, the almost overwhelming yearning.

Slowly, very slowly, the Warden's head bent again, and their lips met once more in a gentle, clinging, kiss that soothed, calmed, very different from the inciting ones of before. Zevran could feel the lingering heat between the both of them, a flame that, with the slightest encouragement, would flare to life again and easily consume them both.

_But not here._

Zevran's mind repeated that statement. Clearly, the Warden had thought the same; as he pulled back, the eyes hardened, lips pressing in a firm line.

"We have to go back."

Zevran heard the low, growled words, knew they sounded like a literal statement of them returning to the rest of their small party—and understood the meaning behind them, beyond the obvious one:

That of their attraction for each other, and the desire that still lay naked between them.

He studied the Warden's face; saw the determination in the masculine, angular lines. Eventually smiled, and inclined his head. "As you command, my dear Warden," he purred, "so I shall."

_~to be continued~_


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'ed; all mistakes are my own.

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 17_

* * *

The scents of food and ale assaulted Zevran's nose, along with the stink of perfume. Surprisingly, the smells were actually _good_ ; but then, the Gnawed Noble Tavern was apparently a place of quiet good taste: the kind where wealthy noblemen drunkenly lounge about and wait for their turn to be pickpocketed. He saw more than a few patrons in clothes that gleamed with gold thread and wearing rings winking with jewels, fat and heavy-looking purses hanging from their belts, and couldn't stop the reflexive twitch of fingers itching to relieve these nobles of their burdens.

But this place was one that the Warden seemed to have frequented before, interestingly enough: some of the waitresses clearly recognized him, and one of them sashayed up to their group, smiling brilliantly. "Welcome back, my lord!" she said, curtseying. "It has been a while since you've last visited."

The Warden wore a well-practised, appealing smile as he bowed slightly. "Ah, my dear, you are as lovely and ravishing as ever."

"Thank you," she said, not even batting an eyelash; clearly used to the Warden's easy charm. "Shall I show you to your usual table?"

"I'm afraid not. I'm here on business, you understand."

"Of course, my lord. We'll be around if you decide to linger." Curtseying, she swished away—a fascinating sight, really. The movement was rather like cats fighting in a burlap sack.

"Now _that_ is a nice behind," Alistair commented suddenly.

Zevran burst out laughing at that comment, while the Warden had turned to watch Alistair with an expression that was both horrified and deeply amused. Alistair seemed to finally realize what he just said, and blushed furiously.

"What?" he said defensively. "It is! Just look at it."

"I was," the Warden said, his lips twitching. "I didn't realize _you_ were looking. Or that you enjoyed looking."

Alistair shrugged and smiled, his face still a bit pink on the cheeks. "What can I say, I am a weak, weak man."

"And a foolish one," Morrigan murmured, giving Alistair a scornful look. "One mustn't forget that."

"Hey!"

Chuckling, the Warden turned and headed for the bar at the opposite end of the room. "Let's go, we've wasted enough time dawdling."

Morrigan and Alistair flashed glares at each other, then dismissed the other with a shrug and followed the Warden's heels.

Zevran stayed to the back of their group, still feeling uneasy about this 'meeting'. Instinct kept prickling, warning of danger: but the Warden was as stubborn as his hound and quite unlikely to listen to any more argument.

He glanced about, and noticed that the patrons were watching their group; not surprising, since their obvious arms and equipment, dusty with travel, stuck out like a sore thumb. What was _interesting_ , however, was that some of the older, more wealthy-looking of the group was actually looking _at_ the Warden, and their expressions—surprise, shock, and some even looked…relieved?

Then one of the older men stood up from where he was seated and walked over to their group. A distinguished man, his hair and bread pale blond with streaks of grey running through them. "Excuse me, sers…" he called out as he was striding over, his accents placing him as one of the aristocracy.

The Warden looked up from his quiet conversation with the bartender, and turned his head, regarding the approaching man with a raised eyebrow.

The man stopped, stared openly. "Maker!" he exclaimed, shocked. "Aren't you Bryce and Eleanor Cousland's youngest?"

The Warden frowned, and then recognition flashed in his eyes. He turned around fully as he straightened, smiled in welcome. "Bann Sighard? Of Dragon's Peak?"

"It _is_ you!" Laughing, the bann reached out and enfolded the Warden in a hug—judging by the size the Warden's eyes had widened, that reaction was unexpected. "I am so glad to see you hale and whole, my boy!"

Very clearly uncomfortable, the Warden tentatively returned hug, his hand patting the bann's upper back. "Uhm…yes…thanks?"

Bann Sighard stepped back, his face growing solemn. "I've heard about what happened at Highever, my boy. I'm sorry to hear that. Your father and mother were good people—to hear them declared traitors to Ferelden…I never believed the charges." His lips thinned. "We would have helped to defend you, if we'd known…I just wanted you to know that."

The Warden sighed, looking grim. "Arl Howe didn't exactly give us a lot of time to prepare things."

"Yes…" Bann Sighard's face was hard. "I'd never understood why your father regarded him highly, you know: Arl Howe had always struck me as the sort of man who would kick small puppies for laughs." He gave the Warden a speculative look. "Are you here to—?"

"No," the Warden said shortly. "Not yet, anyhow. There is much to be done, too much for me to focus on retaking Highever yet. I am a Grey Warden now, as you might have known."

"Yes, we've heard." Sighard looked amused at that. "I could scarcely imagine the Terror of Highever as a Grey Warden…but you've always been a smart boy, even if your attitude wasn't, err, the best to be had. To have joined such a well-known and august order; your parents would be proud."

The Warden smiled, a little too tightly. "I hope so."

Sighard inclined his head. "I shall not take much more of your time then, my lord. It was good to see you again."

"Likewise."

With a smile and a low, respectful bow, the bann left the Warden.

"You actually have supporters, Warden? Why have you not asked them for aid?" Morrigan asked once the bann was out of earshot.

"Largely because I'm still a wanted man, who is part of an order that had been declared traitors," the Warden pointed out, sounded testy. "Any noble who publically aided me would end up with _them_ being stuffed into a dark dungeon somewhere without a by-your-leave."

Morrigan scoffed. "As you wish. Although 'twould be a foolish waste of resources."

"I am _so_ glad you approve," the Warden retorted. "Now, if we are quite done, the bartender just told me where to find our contact."

Sniffing, Morrigan fell alongside the Warden as he turned into a corridor that led to what Zevran would assume to be rooms that the tavern rented out.

The door that the Warden had picked out was unlocked—they filed in, into a tiny sitting room, and then headed to the back where the sleeping chamber would be.

The balding, pleasant-faced man in merchant garb Zevran had spotted earlier in the marketplace was waiting in that room, a pair of swarthy, well-armed men flanking him.

The guards—for they were that—snarled menacingly at their party. Undaunted, the Warden walked up to the balding 'merchant', looking down at the shorter man.

Behind him, Alistair had a hand hovering over the hilt of his sword, eyes trained on the two guards. Morrigan was smiling softly, her eyes frighteningly bright as she opened a palm and let a small ball of fire float in her hand.

The guards stared at the warrior and witch, then—wisely—backed off, shooting fierce, hostile glares at them.

Zevran noticed all of that, but his main attention was focused on the Warden, and the man who had sent them that cryptic note.

Cold, calculating eyes (blue bordering on grey, like the cold skies of a Ferelden winter) took stock of the group that entered the room, resting longer on Zevran, studying him, before the eyes shifted to the Warden.

"You here about a note?" said Master Ignacio, his voice still that same pleasant voice Zevran remembered hearing not so long ago, his accent thick and clearly foreign. And those eyes, watching, always watching, now watching the Warden. "Maybe we have some things we can talk about."

"Just see if this conversation stays civil," Zevran hissed. "If this is a trap—"

"Zevran, is it?" Master Ignacio stared at Zevran. "You're Talisen's responsibility. Other Crows may try to kill you, but in my eyes, you're already dead. But the Warden here—" Ignacio looked at the tall human, who was watching the brief exchange with cautious interest. "—he is of great interest to me."

"But you were hired to kill me," the Warden drawled, voice equal parts accusatory and grimly amused.

Ignacio snorted at that. "I can't stress enough that _I_ wasn't hired to do anything. An _associate_ —" He looked pointedly at Zevran. "—was, and he's failed—and failed badly."

The insult effectively snatched Zevran's mind from memories the name 'Talisen' stirred. "I'd like to see _you_ do any better," he retorted.

Anger flashed in the elder Crow's eyes. "Do you take me for a fool? That's a contract I'd _never_ take!" he snarled back, before abruptly remembering their audience. He cleared his throat, and then turned back to the Warden. His eyes grew calculating again. "A client can always hire more…help. If the job isn't done the first time. But I'm hoping we can make sure that doesn't happen."

The Warden watched Ignacio in silence while he spoke; at that comment, he turned to Zevran, raised his brows. "Zevran, is this true?"

Zevran frowned, searched his memories of Crow stories and legends. "I've only heard of the one time the entire House of Crows was hired for a job. A princely sum changed hands and an entire noble family died. Not one soul survived." The Harvest of Blood, they'd called that—the Crows and the commoners both. "Ignacio has the right of it. Generally, it is one master, one job."

The eyebrows had risen higher; the Warden's eyes were alight with curiosity.

Zevran was perfectly willing to bet on the Warden cornering him and asking questions about the Crows pretty soon—followed by heavy petting.

Or maybe he'd only ask after the heavy petting. He didn't really care, as long as there was heavy petting involved—if it went beyond heavy petting, so much better. Less clothing, more skin, more touching and kissing and—

Zevran decided he better stop thinking about that for now, if he wanted to avoid embarrassing himself.

The Warden had turned back to Ignacio, and had said: "I'm listening."

Ignacio seemed mildly relieved that the Warden was not being hostile. He smiled ever so slightly, and spoke: "Ferelden is a busy place: Blight, civil war, other mayhem. Lots of people not getting along. Sometimes they _really_ don't get along. Maybe want to do something about it. The people that handle that sort of thing can get really busy."

The Warden crossed his arms, expression suspicious. "So…you're hiring help?"

"It takes time to do a good job," Ignacio explained, "pride in your work and all—but customers have expectations. Not many people to turn to if you're short-staffed in some lines of work. So someone that's crossed our path and lived…" He raised his brows. "Well, maybe they could help out. Make some coin. Everybody wins."

"Uh-huh." There was still a wary suspicion in the Warden's eyes, but he also looked highly interested. "How does this work, then?"

"I hand you a scroll." Ignacio took out one such scroll—an unremarkable-looking thing, with simple wood handles. "You read it, you learn about someone interesting. If you find out something happens to him, something unfortunate, then if we talk again I give you money for 'letting me know'." He shrugged. "You don't like what's on the scroll, don't do anything. Maybe he has an accident, and someone else tells me about it."

The Warden looked at the scroll, his expression unreadable, before raising his eyes to Ignacio and narrowing them. "If I help you do this, I want no more Crows after me."

Ignacio's eyes narrowed right back. "This I cannot do. One master has a contract on you." A sly smile danced around the Crow's thin lips. "But if you help us out, maybe if that master asks for help he'll just get silence, yes?"

The Warden stared at Ignacio, who simply looked back impassively.

Zevran could practically see the cogs working around in the Warden's head. The Warden was, inherently, one who'd trust a bit too easily for Zevran's liking, even if the human's instincts were usually sound.

So he wasn't entirely too surprised when the Warden held his hand out, wiggling his fingers. "Hand me the scroll."

The corner of Ignacio's mouth tipped upwards; casually, he placed the scroll in the Warden's waiting hand. "There you go. Makes for fine reading."

The Warden may a trusting one; but Zevran was not so naïve. "You're a cautious little weasel, Ignacio," he spat. "What's your angle? If you're playing us false—"

The look that the elder Crow shot him was full of disdain. "My dance," he said scathingly, "is not for you. I need to be real…honest, sometimes." He shrugged. "And I can say I haven't asked anyone to do _anything_. I've just given someone something interesting to read."

 _Except that anyone with any bit of sense would be able to see through your words._ Zevran scoffed. "And you think that this will save your hide when they nail it to a wall?"

With grim pleasure he saw the fury burn in Ignacio's gaze at those words. "You're already dead in my eyes, _whoreson_ ," he said, voice dripping with disgust on that last word, "take care that I don't 'learn' otherwise." The fury was quickly dampened—Ignacio was a master at that, changing his emotions when it suited him—as he looked back at the Warden, once again a pleasant-voiced, polite man in the trappings of a merchant. "If that's all," he said, "luck be to you."

The Warden smiled softly as he handed the scroll over to Zevran. "Thank you, Master Ignacio," the Warden murmured. "Perhaps we'll be back with some information about this person you've spoken of." Without waiting for a reply, the Warden turned sharply on his heel and walked out.

Shooting final glares at the guards, Morrigan and then Alistair followed the Warden.

Zevran lingered back, waited until the other three had slipped around and past him through the exit, before he turned, his body tensed—

"Zevran."

Ignacio's voice was quiet, meant for Zevran's ears only, and the elf turned, looking at the elder Crow.

The pleasant face was grim, and the eyes were as sharp as dagger points. "Do you really think that joining the Wardens will keep you from the Crow's wrath?" Ignacio asked, in Zevran's native Antivan.

Zevran smiled, humorlessly, and replied in the same language: "Considering that I have not seen many Crows attempting to kill the Warden after I've tried and failed, I think I might just succeed in doing so."

Ignacio narrowed his eyes. "You know that Talisen would not give up until either he or you were dead."

"That is a risk that I shall take."

"I see." Ignacio smiled, and on another person Zevran could call it a smile of affection. But not Ignacio. The man was too cold, too dead in his heart for that. "You were always a stubborn one, whoreson, yet you have always been quick to adapt to ways that will ensure your own survival. As you have done then, you are doing now."

Zevran laughed. "I've learned from the best, old man, and _you_ are a master of that particular art."

"Impertinent whelp," Ignacio snorted. "If you were still under my hand I would have you flogged for that." He gave Zevran a stern look. "But know this: Talisen will be your last challenge, if you truly wish to leave; no one else would dare pursue you, I think, not while you remain with the Warden."

 _Warden, in singular._ Zevran noticed that little detail, knew what it implied. That _this_ particular Warden was a danger even the Crows would not face openly. He narrowed his eyes at the older Crow. "And you, old man?"

Ignacio gave Zevran an innocent look that fooled no one. "Me? I am but a simple businessman. What you do with your life does not concern me. And I would think that your life has taken a very interesting turn, one that is worth watching, don't you think so?"

Zevran stared at Ignacio for a while, and then he laughed. "True." He inclined his head. "I will see you later, old man—pray that we do not have to speak to each other with daggers then."

"I shall." Ignacio's smile widened, actually showing a bit of teeth. "And luck be to you."

Smirking, Zevran gave the old master— _his_ old master—a final, mocking salute, before leaving, and returning to the Warden's side.

_~to be continued~_


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-betaed; all mistakes are my own.

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 18_

* * *

The Warden did not ask Zevran about what happened with Ignacio.

Oh, it wasn't that the Warden did not think of asking, or did not wish to; the human's curiosity was plain in every glance he shot Zevran, when their party left Denerim and headed back to their main camp in the wilds along Denerim's outskirts.

But for some reason the Warden had elected to not question Zevran, for which he was grateful, if he dared to admit to himself. Talking about what had happened with…well, he wasn't ready to reveal that just yet.

But meeting with Ignacio  _did_  bring up a question—a very urgent one, especially given Talisen's involvement now. He sought out the Warden at the first opportunity he had, when it was late and the rest of their party were already getting ready for sleep.

The Warden, he'd noticed, often went to his own tent last, lingering near the campfire until everyone who wasn't on watch duty for that hour had slipped off to their respective sleeping places before he turned in for the night. Zevran had, on a few occasions, feigned sleep, and saw that this particular habit was a consistent one, happening every night.

_Not that he watched the Warden all the time._

… _just most of the time._

So it was rather easy to blend into the shadows beside the Warden's tent and wait quietly, until the human was approaching the tent, a grim expression on that handsome face—the Warden always seemed grim, even though Zevran knew by now that the man was always game for a little fun. It was a sad thing to say, an unattractive expression on such a handsome face.

But he wasn't here to ogle faces—well, it was not the main reason, at the least.

Waiting until the Warden was only paces away, Zevran shifted out of the shadows, making his presence known.

Or so he thought. The Warden looked up, and smiled, looking completely unsurprised. "Zevran," the human said in greeting. "I was wondering why you were lurking there."

_That's an unnerving thought. Have I grown sloppy with my stealth?_ "Oh? Have you noticed me for very long?"

The Warden chuckled, his eyes growing hooded. "I  _always_  notice you, Zevran," he said on a low, growling voice that sent little shivers skittering up Zevran's spine.

"Really?" Zevran said with a laugh, relieved that his voice didn't sound too breathless. "How sad; it does not bode well for one's assassin career when you're noticed so easily, no?"

"You hide well enough," the Warden murmured, shifting, until they were bare inches from each other. A hand rose, the back of the fingers gently stroking across Zevran's cheek, and the keen eyes were as bright as the smile that the Warden now wore. "But from me…no, you cannot hide from my eyes."

The strangely dark words, and their… _possessiveness_ , that was the word…sent a bolt of instinctive alarm through him—even as a part of him purred and wished to curl around the Warden and not let go.

_What the—?_

Smiling, hiding the sudden fear and alarm he felt, he stepped back and cleared his throat. "I've a question, if I may," he said, slightly hesitantly.

The Warden's brows rose, very slightly, but he looked intrigued as he nodded once. "Go ahead."

"Well, here is the thing…" How should he be asking this question? "I swore an oath to serve you, yes? And I understand the quest you're one and this is all very fine and well." He tilted his head. "My question pertains to what you intend to do with me once this business is over with. As a point of curiosity," he hurriedly added.

The Warden was still smiling—and Zevran watched, fascinated, as that wolf-like edge crept into that smile. "Is this after I ravish you in celebration?"

The bald, cheeky comment startled a laugh out of him, and he grinned back. "Of course it is afterwards," he said with a chuckle. "The ravishing part is a given." He sobered, smile fading. "One simply assumes that, once your Grey Warden business is finished, you would have no need of an assassin to follow you about."  _And I could no longer count you as a protection from the Crows._  "Am I wrong?"

The Warden's eyes narrowed as he frowned, and Zevran stared back, waiting for the Warden's response.

Then the lips twisted, half-amused, half…understanding? Zevran mentally frowned at that, but the Warden shrugged, and smiled that wolf's grin again. "There's always a use or two for a handsome elf."

… _yes, definitely a single-minded man._

Chuckling—and oddly relieved—Zevran smirked and reached up, finger trailing over the Warden's nose. "I'm sure that I could come up with a few more, if pressed," he purred.

The Warden's hand came up, caught his in a firm grasp just as it reached the tip of that patrician nose. The keen eyes rose as well, caught Zevran's own gaze...

…held it as the Warden pulled his hand to the sinful mouth…

…and a tongue slowly, deliberately, circled his fingertip.

Zevran's lungs seized—his throat tightened. Held his breath as firm lips closed around his fingertip, lightly kissed, and then oh-so-gently sucked.

And immediately bringing to mind images of the Warden, on his knees, that mouth kissing, sucking on a part of Zevran that was suddenly hot and heavy and aching. His lungs relaxed a fraction; he let out some of his breath in a sigh, the sound shaky.

The lips still lightly closed over his finger curved; the Warden's gaze was dark with intent as he released Zevran's hand with a last flick of his tongue.

Wondering what game the Warden was playing at this time, Zevran only smiled—a little tightly—and raised his brows in a taunting gaze.

"Care to join me in my tent?"

The words were said in a soft, rumbling growl; with the toothy smile the Warden now wore, it made the human all the more wolf-like. Menacing. Dangerous. A predator waiting to pounce.

And Zevran felt something within him purr in response.

"Oh?" Zevran's brows rose higher as his own smile widened into a similar grin. "Is there something in your tent that needs assassinating? That is my specialty, or so I'm told."

"I just want to talk with you." Still grinning, the Warden leaned down, his mouth dropping to the side of Zevran's ear. And his voice dropped into a breathy whisper as he murmured: "…in private."

In a voice that dripped with dark, earthy pleasures, before the Warden lightly blew a breath over the heated, suddenly sensitive skin of the pointed shell.

Zevran suppressed a shudder at that—not entirely successfully, given the Warden's chuckle as he straightened.

But if the Warden was implying what Zevran thought he was implying… "Now this is intriguing." He gave the Warden a teasing smile. "Whatever would we need such privacy to…talk about? Tactics? Poison-recipes? The Midsummer dance?"

The human's smile was full of wicked anticipation. "You'll find out," he murmured, eyes glinting beneath long dark lashes. "Just get in the tent. No questions."

The commanding tone of the last few words made Zevran chuckle. "Why, yes ser!" he said mockingly. "I should warn you, however, that I've never been known to succumb to an interrogation. You may just have to beat it out of me." He waggled his brows suggestively. "Creatively."

The Warden's eyebrows rose, but he was still smiling as his hands closed around Zevran's waist and he pulled their bodies flush against each other, and the sudden wash of the large body's heat over Zevran's body made the elf quietly moan at the back of his throat.

"I'll see what I can do," the Warden murmured, his head bending lower, his face hovering only inches from Zevran's.

Knowing that he was grinning widely and unable to suppress it, Zevran wrapped his arms about the Warden's neck, tipped his head back. "Truly?" he breathed over the Warden's smiling mouth. "Then we could be in for a long night."

Chuckling, the Warden's reply was to swoop down and cover Zevran's lips with his.

Kissed him. A full, open-mouthed, lips-to-lips kiss that stole the breath and left Zevran light-headed.

The Warden's tongue plunged in with no reservations, stroking, claiming, then settled to plundering. The man leaned in, commanded,  _demanded_ —and Zevran surrendered, giving in, before he kissed back, fearlessly, ravenously.

And the kiss escalated into a duel—of claiming, challenging…a battle for sensual dominance. With lips and teeth and tongue and roving hands they each sought to overwhelm the other's senses—the Warden with his animal magnetism and natural skill against Zevran with his sensual instincts and honed technique.

A fight of feeding and taking, giving and seizing.

A clash that left them both breathless and wanting and hungry for  _more._

It was the Warden who eventually pulled back, with a last bite on Zevran's lower lip. They were both breathing hard—the Warden's face was lightly flushed. Eyes dark with lust, the Warden caught Zevran's wrist and tugged him to the tent—a silent directive that he gladly followed.

The tent was larger than one would expect, but its insides were mostly empty, only containing the most basic of possessions—armor, sword, a backpack carefully put in a corner of the tent…and a large pile of pelts that were arranged to make a soft bed of fur.

As he sat on his heels and took stock of the tent's insides, the Warden (who was on his knees; his head brushed the top of the tent, even with the rather generous size) let go of his wrist—only to slide arms around Zevran and take the elf in another kiss.

Lips pliant, softly moving over his. Gently, unhurriedly. As if they had all the time in the world.

The wild passion of the kiss before was like a raging firestorm that engulfed Zevran's senses— _this_ kiss, light and teasing, was a slow burn, one that made Zevran fully, completely aware of the hot mouth moving over his, of the hard body that shifted against his—and left him frantic, desperate for more.

Until he groaned and took charge of the kiss—and the Warden let him, mouth relaxing and opening, and Zevran deftly seized the reins, his tongue reaching in to savor, possess the human's mouth.

And drew them back into the firestorm, until their mouths ravaged each others, not so much fighting as mating, drawing out the passion and yearning until they  _burned_.

His hands had been clutching the Warden's shoulders—now they moved, roving over the hard body screened by thick wool. Broad shoulders, wide chest, powerful back…

Swept his hands lower still, until they closed over the high, tight globes of the Warden's bottom—cupped, caressed, then kneaded.

The Warden pulled back from the kiss on a gasp, tilting his head back—and Zevran took advantage of the exposed neck, tongue laving, teeth nipping, following the corded tendons to one ear and nibbling on an earlobe.

Delighted in the Warden's moan.

"Like that?" he whispered into the ear, at the same time dug his fingers in and squeezed, and was rewarded with a groan.

"Maker." The Warden's voice was a harsh growl. "I thought I was supposed to be the one doing the interrogations."

Zevran barked a laugh, and leaned back slightly, grinning at the Warden, hands still busy with the hard muscles filling his palms. "Ah, but you do not know  _everything_  there is to know about 'interrogation', yes?"

The Warden frowned, briefly, and then sighed. A slightly rueful smile curved his lips, swollen and slick from their kisses. "I suppose not."

Chuckling, Zevran leaned back in, brushed his lips over the Warden's lightly. "Then relax, and let Zevran take care of everything."

"…Everything?"

The Warden's mocking—and beneath that, hesitant—tone made Zevran smile as he held the Warden by the waist, turned the human until the Warden's back was to the bed of pelts, and started to ease the human backwards. "Yes," he purred to the Warden, "everything." He pushed, lightly, making the Warden shift back and sit down on the soft fur—wolf's fur, he realized, likely the ones harvested from the Brecilian Forest—and he followed the other man down, still kneeling, his knees resting by the sides of one hard thigh. He cupped the Warden's face, tilted it up so he could look down at the handsome visage fully. "Relax, my dear Warden, and let me show you what skills I have to offer besides assassination."

"Confident in your abilities, aren't you?" the Warden sighed; but some of the tenseness that had stiffened the Warden when he was pushed down had melted away. "But all right."

Smiling again, Zevran placed his hands on the Warden's back, pushed him until he lay supine on the pelts. The sight of the human's long, muscled frame on the fur…even fully clothed, it was a delightful image.

The thought of that body fully bare against the fur made Zevran's mouth water.

Fighting to keep his smile from being too intent, Zevran shifted, straddling the Warden's hips, then sitting down fully. His erection pressed onto the similar hardness encased in the Warden's breeches—the contact making him hiss, while the Warden's hands closed over his hips as the human closed his eyes and groaned in reply.

Ignoring the urge to hump against the Warden—quick and easy relief, true, but too crude for his tastes, especially with so many potentially more pleasurable alternatives—Zevran gazed down at the Warden, waiting until the eyes fluttered open and met his. "So…" He smirked, very slowly undulating over the Warden, grinding their hips together—felt the fingers over his own hips clench almost painfully. "How do you want to do this, hm?"

"Uh…" The Warden swallowed, giving Zevran a tight smile. "Kind of hard to think, with you moving like that."

"Hmm…" Still slowly rolling his hips, Zevran leaned forward, bracing his body on his elbows, keeping a heavy-lidded gaze on the Warden, and he smiled. "Slowly, perhaps? So that you can…"  _Immerse yourself in the experience. Learn what it is like when two men make love._ "…savor things." His eyebrow quirked up. "We do have a long night ahead, no?"

The Warden's laugh was a shaky, breathless thing—and it turned into a choking groan when Zevran (just because he can) drove his hips down with a little more force than necessary. "Yeah," the Warden said. "Slow. We can do that, sure. As long as it doesn't mean 'stop'."

The voice was deeper than before, almost guttural. It made Zevran laugh wickedly. "As you wish,"´he murmured, then leaned down, bent his head and took the Warden's lips, engaged with the other man again.

Sank into the softened mouth, with his tongue and lips caressed, teased, enticed, then let the Warden play along. Let them both give and take, to a slower, less overwhelming rhythm than before.

Leaning on one elbow, he let his free hand reach down. Sought the hem of the Warden's tunic, caught it, and drew it up, exposing the tautly muscled belly.

The Warden himself had reached up, fingers working at the buckle of the belt Zevran wore around his own tunic, long fingers surprisingly nimble as the human undid the buckle and then slid the belt off, tossing it aside almost carelessly to the ground before the large hands slipped beneath Zevran's tunic and caressed over his back.

On any other occasion Zevran might have yelled at the way his belt had been discarded, but his mouth was busy with other more pleasurable things, and at this point he was too damned  _hot and hard and wanting and needing_  to care.

He ran a hand,  _slowly_ , from the point where the Warden's torso disappeared into the waist of his breeches, all the way up to the crinkly hairs covering the broad chest. The skin beneath was heated, slightly damp with sweat—the Warden made a soft sound and arched beneath Zevran's hand, the powerful muscles flexing.

He smiled into the kiss as he walked his fingers over a hard pectoral, seeking and finding a flat nipple. Slid his thumb over it, feeling it pebble. Took that hardened nub between thumb and fingers, and squeezed.

Gasping again, the Warden broke from the kiss, hissing in a breath. The hands on Zevran's back dug in, clung.

Zevran let the pressure of his fingers ease, regarding the Warden with a raised brow.

"Don't stop," the deep voice spoke in sultry command.

One Zevran was happy to comply. Obediently, he squeezed again, watched the Warden's eyelids fall as he let out a pleasured sigh.

"Maker," the Warden whispered. His hands started roving again, carefully tracing the muscles of Zevran's torso, the exploring caresses making the elf shiver. "I know most women like this but—shit, that's  _good_."

"Oh?" Zevran smiled, pleased at the surprised pleasure that rumbled in the Warden's voice. "I think you're lacking a little in your…shall we say, 'education' about these things?" He pinched for emphasis, and was pleased to hear the Warden yelp, the eyes flying open and giving Zevran an incredulous, shocked look.

"…Very funny," the Warden said. A hand had let go of Zevran's body, only to run fingers through the blond tresses; and the Warden grinned, sharply. "And do that again."

Laughing, Zevran allowed himself to be drawn back to a kiss, and he played, tweaked the nipple between his fingers, and gloried in the open ardor of the Warden's response.

The man was warm and alive beneath his hands; his delight, and pleasure, was there in his kiss, in the eagerness that had surged through the large frame.

When Zevran shifted, balanced his weight more on his legs and set both hands to tease the Warden's nipples, played more definitely, the man made a sound deep in his throat and deepened the kiss into blatant intimacy, coaxing, demanding, as the hips beneath his surged up and shoved, slid against his...

It was suddenly a battle to keep the pace slow and not speed things up, to let urgency sweep them both away as it had so easily before. To incite the Warden and drive them both into a desperate frenzy to ease their pains…Zevran sucked in a breath, felt his chest swell, as he mentally clung to the chains of his control…

There was barely any warning for what happened next.

One moment they were both burning in sensual heat—the next moment Zevran's ears dimly heard the pattering of clawed feet, before a massive four-footed form bowled straight into the tent and more or less crashed on top of him, whining in pitiful fear.

He yelped, the sudden weight sending him sprawling on top of the Warden—and his forehead collided with the man's jaw, making him yelp again.

The Warden hissed in pain, and then shifted, rolled, arm curling around Zevran's waist and pulling him to one side, from beneath a very terrified mabari. "Anlan!" the Warden exclaimed, sounding as shocked as Zevran felt. "What—"

There was a loud, drunken roar from outside, and Oghren barged into the tent, eyes glazed with alcohol and fury, his hand clutching his great axe, and wearing nothing but inebriated rage and a very messy beard.

The sight of a naked Oghren was…something Zevran did not need to see. He shut his eyes, but the image had burned into the back of his eyes, like some unholy creature from his worst nightmares come to life.

… _ugh…_

Anlan whimpered as he attempted to climb over the Warden—without much success, since the man's hand had clutched the mabari's scruff and  _very firmly_  held him at bay.

"Y' soddin' slobberin' fleabag!" Oghren slurred, raising his axe. "Give me back my pants, stupid thieving—"

"Whoa,  _whoa!_ " And suddenly Alistair crashed in with most of his upper body and one leg (bent at the knee to support his weight), catching the handle of the dwarf's axe in his hands just before the berserker could swing it down and seriously hurt someone. "Hey, stop that! There's no reason to go after the mabari!"

"He…stole my pants! I demand that he…it…give it back!"

"And chopping off its head is supposed to help you  _how,_ exactly?" Alistair retorted. "Go put some clothes on and sleep it off!"

"I would if I can find my pants!"

"Found them!" Leliana sing-sang as she peeked in with only her head, grinning. "You left them by the fire, Oghren…I don't know how they got there, but they're—" Her gaze rose, and spotted the Warden, lying sprawled on the wolf-pelts with his tunic still pulled up above his chest and glaring at the little party that had crashed in, then flicked to Zevran, curled up beside the Warden within the circle of an arm, watching the bard, dog, dwarf and ex-templar with barely contained annoyance.

Her eyes widened into circles; her jaw dropped.

Alistair and Oghren seemed to suddenly become aware of who  _else_  was in the tent; they both looked at the Warden and elf, their expressions just as shocked as Leliana's.

Zevran bit his lower lip and stifled the urge to let out a laugh at the absurdity of it all.

The Warden shifted; his free hand rose and pulled his tunic back down. His eyes glittered with a dangerous fury.

"Get out."

The words were spoken in a low voice, barely above a whisper—and the effect was equivalent to a thunderous roar. Jumping, Leliana clapped a hand over her mouth, and then hastily backed out of the tent; Alistair gaped, blushed furiously, and then very deliberately turned his head away as he pulled on the axe in his hands, dragging Oghren along with him as he stalked out.

"H..hey! That elf is in the Warden's tent!" Oghren exclaimed in a volume that made Zevran wince. "He's not s'posed to—"

" _Never mind that!_ " Alistair said, just as loudly and (miraculously) shutting the dwarf up. "We're getting you dressed and shoved back into your bedroll." He heaved back and out of the tent, and sent the dwarf stumbling after him. His head popped back in soon after, looked at the Warden, looked at Zevran, blushed again, and then looked at the walls of the tent. "Uhm, sorry about that. We'll…just be leaving."

And then Alistair very quickly ducked out of the tent, leaving the Warden and Zevran alone with a still-whining Anlan.

Eyes narrowed, the Warden turned to look at the mabari. "Did you do something to get Oghren chasing after you?"

Anlan stopped whining; he wagged his tail, very slightly, and barked.

"…right. I suppose I don't want to know." Sighing, the Warden let go of the mabari's scruff and shoved at the barrel-chested hound. "Now go on, shoo. You're not supposed to sleep in tents, you know the rules."

The mabari perked up, and barked happily, before trotting out of the tent, as if nothing had happened.

A long moment of awkward silence fell, as they both stared at the tent's entrance, and then looked at each other.

"…well, now," Zevran said, breaking the silence. "That's…not something one gets to see every day."

The Warden's reply to that was an annoyed grunt. "Andraste's flaming tits on a stick," the human muttered. "That wasn't supposed to happen."

Zevran raised an eyebrow. "If you are referring to having your dog crashing into us just as things were getting intriguing…I don't think that such a thing could have been planned. Unless there is a very cruel god out there somewhere that wants to interrupt our…privacy." The shock had fully worn off by now, and was very quickly replaced by a slightly chagrined hilarity. "All things considered, it could have been worse, no?"

Judging by the twist in the Warden's lips and the dancing light in the keen eyes, the other man had begun to see the funny side of their situation. "Oh, very much worse.  _I've_  been in worse."

"So have I," Zevran said with a smirk. "Funny how some things work out."

They both chuckled at that, each remembering embarrassing (and in hindsight, rather hilarious) sexual misadventures. Then Zevran shifted, rolled so he was half-sprawled on his stomach over the Warden. The human's arms rose, circled around him, half-cradling him—although judging by the far-away expression on the Warden's face, the other man only did so somewhat absently. "…so…" Zevran shifted in the Warden's arms, drawing the other man's attention back. "…what now?"

"…I think that my appetite for some things have disappeared completely, after seeing Oghren in nothing but his birthday suit." The Warden grimaced and shuddered.

The very memory of it made Zevran blanch. "Oh…good. I was feeling the same."

The Warden sighed and gave Zevran a rueful grin. "Guess we'll do this some other time?" The Warden's inflection made the statement a question.

Relieved that the Warden had, in fact, not decide to end things right there, Zevran smiled and nodded. "Some other time." He raised an eyebrow. "One involving less drunk dwarves and frightened dogs, yes?"

"Agreed," the Warden said in a chuckle.

Laughing as well, Zevran leaned in, very lightly kissed the Warden, their lips clinging together, and then—with a fair bit of regretful reluctance—Zevran pulled out of his arms and started crawling off the pelts.

The Warden reached out, lightly clasped his wrist. "Where are you going?"

Zevran glanced at the Warden. "To my own bed, of course?"

The fingers around his wrist locked. "Why?"

Zevran raised his brows. "Isn't that what I'm supposed to do, since we're not going to have sex?"

The Warden raised his brows right back. "I'm quite sure that a bed of pelts is a fair bit warmer and more comfortable than the bedroll you use." He grinned. "Besides, with Oghren's exclaimation, and Alistair and Leliana's tendency for gossip, the whole camp would know what we were doing—and I doubt you'd want to go back out there and deal with their questions, am I right?"

Zevran thought about that…and mentally winced. "Mmm…perhaps I should hide here, until the uproar is over, at least."

"Perhaps you should," the Warden said, amused. He held his arms out in blatant invitation, one eyebrow raised in challenge.

Snorting, Zevran crawled back, settling to sprawl over the Warden again.

The arms enfolded around him—embracing him—and drew him closer to the Warden, settled him more comfortably against the hard body.

Then the Warden bent his head, gently nuzzled the top of Zevran's head—a strangely intimate, almost _affectionate_ gesture that made Zevran's heart leap wildly with an emotion he could not identify.

"Go to sleep," the Warden murmured, before he could think about that emotion. "We'll deal with the others in the morning."

Cradled in the Warden's arms, he stared up at the Warden; saw that the other man had closed his eyes, his breathing already starting to slow down.

Zevran's eyes narrowed, but after a moment, he shifted carefully and settled his head against the Warden's chest.

A hand rose, lightly ran through his hair, soothingly combing through the blond strands.

Listening to the beat of the Warden's heart, the man's hand gently brushing his hair, Zevran closed his eyes and drifted into a quiet, content sleep.

_~to be continued~_


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No beta for this chapter; all mistakes are my own.

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 19_

* * *

Zevran awoke to the sensation of a warm and heavy male body wrapped around him.

It took a while for his sleep-fogged mind to realize just how wrapped he truly was—strong arms had bracketed his torso, effectively pinning his arms to his sides, and a long leg had curled over his, pinning his lower limbs down as well.

He was, for all intents and purposes, effectively trapped.

For a very brief moment his heart leapt to his throat in a panic, before the feel of the body, and the scent of it, registered in his mind. The heavy muscles, the smell of leather and musk—Warden.

He blinked, waited until his eyes cleared, adjusted to the dimness of the tent.

He was lying on his side, facing the Warden, whose face was level with his neck—he could feel the warm puffs of air at the side of his neck while the Warden breathed, even and deep, feel the thick hair ticking the lower half of his cheek, the sharp nose poking just beneath his jaw.

He craned his neck, turned his head, only managed to catch a sliver of face beyond the sleep-mussed hair and the single visible ear.

Snorting, Zevran let his head fall back, his eyes drifting to the tent's entrance.

Judging from the faint, bluish light that filtered through the gaps of the flap, and the relative darkness of the tent, he guessed it was still early morning.

And from the tangible chill in the air, he guessed that the sun had yet to start rising.

Frowning, he glanced down at the Warden again. The man had not moved, his breathing remained slow and deep—no doubt still deep asleep.

The thought of returning to his bedroll (doubtlessly cold by now, without his own body to warm it) and leaving the nest of furs and tangled limbs made him shudder, but he supposed that the Warden might actually prefer that they were not found in bed together.

Letting out a rueful sigh, he shifted, started to wiggle away…

…and the arms around him tightened. Pulled him closer to the warm human body.

He froze—it felt that even his heart stopped. He felt the Warden's face shift, the breaths still even, and soft lips lightly brush against the side of his neck.

And felt his heart skip. Race wildly.

"Go back to sleep."

The Warden had murmured into his neck, his breath warming—heating—that patch of skin where the man's lips were, and said lips had lightly grazed his neck while the Warden spoke.

Somehow, that had Zevran breaking out in goose bumps, even though he was far from chilled.

He glanced down at the sliver of face again. Wondered… "How long have you been awake?"

"A hour," the Warden rumbled, confirming Zevran's suspicion. "Maybe more. Was still dark when I woke up." He grunted, then shifted back to look at Zevran. His eyes were heavy-lidded, but they held an alert clarity that most people would not have if they'd just been roused from sleep. "Did I wake you?"

"Actually, I thought  _I_  woke  _you._ " Zevran glanced down at the arms still surrounding him, looked back at the Warden's hooded gaze, and raised his brows. "Aren't you going to let me go?"

The corners of the Warden's lips twitched upwards, very slightly. Then the Warden shifted, moved up so their faces were level this time—and the arms remained stubbornly around Zevran.

"Two reasons," the Warden said, quietly. "One, if you're worried that I'd object to you remaining here, you'd be very wrong." The lips curved, turned into a smile. "Oghren's not-so-timely interruption last night had more or less guaranteed that everyone in camp would know that you've spent the night here; no one will be surprised if they see you coming out of my tent." The eyes twinkled. "Besides, I think I actually like waking up like this, with you here in my arms."

Zevran stared at the Warden as he mentally digested the last few words. When he did…something in him warmed, practically melted and purred.

And that was, frankly, beyond unnerving.

Shaking off the odd feelings, he smirked at the Warden. "And the second reason?"

The Warden gave him a look—a sharp, questioning look—but it was gone before Zevran could call him out on it.

_What in the Maker's name was that?_

But then the Warden spoke, and it was still that deeply relaxed, mildly amused rumble: "Two, it's still early, and bloody cold outside to make dangly bits freeze and fall off—"

"…dangly bits?"

The Warden snorted in laughter at Zevran's disbelieving tone. "You know what I mean…and this being the start of winter, it will remain cold until quite some time after dawn, when there's enough sun to warm things to a tolerably chilly temperature. If the others had any sense of self-preservation, they'd stay in bed and keep warm—it'll likely be another few hours before things start getting busy." The Warden relaxed into the furs, his eyes drifting closed. "Just stay here and sleep. I'll wake you when it's time."

_A few hours?_

Zevran gaped at the Warden, aghast. But the Warden's eyes had remained closed, and thus had not seen his expression.

The elf was the kind of person whom, when awoken from sleep, had extreme difficulty falling back asleep again.

Worse, that strange melting feeling had remained, and it made him uneasy—and therefore, restless. He itched to do something,  _anything_ , to get rid of that oddly vulnerable feeling.

Stifling a groan, he flopped back, sinking into the furs.

The Warden apparently took that as permission to hug closer, bringing their chests more or less flush against each other, and lower still...

Something warm and hard lightly prodded, brushed against Zevran's thigh.

His eyebrows shot up. Leaning back slightly, he noted the Warden's relaxed expression…but that hardness was still resting just against his leg, and yet the man had remained still, apparently unaware of his morning erection.

…or perhaps had dismissed it out of habit.

Zevran pondered this little—well, not so little, if the bulge was any indication—discovery, and thought…

Felt a wicked smile curve his lips.

He shifted, wiggled, waited until the Warden's eyes cracked open and look at him quizzically.

"You know," he said, almost purring. "I have a better way of spending the next few hours we have."

The Warden simply stared, face devoid of expression except for one slightly quirked brow. Then, slowly, the lips curved.

"Mmm…" the Warden hummed. "…what do you have in mind?"

Zevran grinned, then wiggled downwards—until he could reach lower, with his hand cupped the solid, heavy ridge of the Warden's erection through the breeches.

Saw the Warden's until-then still-hooded eyes widen until white showed around the irises, and hissed in a surprised breath.

Chuckling, he closed his hand as well as he could, lightly shifted his fingers—and the Warden's eyes fluttered closed, his breath coming out as soft, slightly strangled laughter.

"I see," the Warden said, his voice suddenly guttural. "Well, I suppose there are worse things."

Zevran barked a laugh, tightened his grip on the treasure in his palm while he pulled his arm out from his side—curled his free hand around the back of the Warden's head, then leaned in and kissed him.

A lazy, slow, open-mouthed kiss that nevertheless effectively sparked the sexual heat that had always existed between them, and said heat flared to life, dancing beneath Zevran's skin playfully, making it itch, and suddenly he was eager to shed his clothes, even in the cold air.

The feel of the Warden's hands spread over his back, steadily rubbing him through the scratchy wool of his clothes, was not helping the least.

The Warden's lips had parted, and the tongue had tangled with Zevran's, twining, stroking, and the kiss grew increasingly urgent as Zevran squeezed, pressed, and fondled. His own erection had been trapped against the Warden's leg—and he let his hips roll lazily, the friction of the grinding motion both a blessed relief and a painful teasing.

The Warden's groin had gone from warm to hot—when Zevran gave a particularly hard squeezed, the Warden made a choking sound into the kiss, a kind of low groan that tapered off into that sexy rumbling growl-purr as the Warden's hips pushed into Zevran's hand.

Delicious.

He broke the kiss, pulled his head back, forced his hand to unclench from behind the Warden's head. Shifted that hand down to not-so-lightly prod the other man in the shoulder; making the Warden roll onto his back, and Zevran knelt over the Warden. With both hands flicked the hem of the tunic up, exposing the Warden's stomach, and then started to undo the buttons on the front of the Warden's breeches, letting his knuckles deliberately brush against the hard flesh beneath the soft fabric.

The human laughed, a tight and high sound, his hands sliding from Zevran's back and now stroking up and down the elf's sides, his eyes heavily-lidded again but glittering with a dark passion that sent a thrilling shiver up Zevran's spine. "Getting impatient, aren't we?" the Warden murmured, smiling crookedly.

 _More than you know,_  Zevran silently answered. "Consider this a continuation of the previous night." Finally the last button popped open, and he pulled down the flap, exposing the Warden's groin to his avid gaze.

His eyes widened slightly—well, the Warden was definitely entirely proportional all over. Large frame, large hands and feet...

A part of him quietly purred in appreciation, even as his thoughts ran wildly rampant at the idea of taking that thick girth inside of him—

"Zevran?" the Warden suddenly asked, sounding amused.

"Hmm?" He glanced up from the Warden's erect member and saw the man smiling at him, a wicked glint in the keen eyes.

The Warden saw him looking—grinned, and raised his brows. "Like what you see?" he rumbled.

The low voice was entirely confident, almost insufferably arrogant. Looking down at the fully erect penis, nested in a thatch of dark curls, Zevran supposed that the Warden had every right to be cocky.

…No pun intended.

Smiling, he reached down, closed his fingers around the rigid rod, savoring the feel of soft velvety skin over hot steely flesh, and stroked up, lightly, until his palm rubbed over the flaring head, before slowly, deliberately, stroked down again.

The grin had vanished from the Warden's face the moment his fingers had closed—as his hand drew upwards, the eyes had squeezed shut, and the kiss-swollen lips had parted to let out a startled-but-pleased "nnf" sound.

Encouraged by that sound (it was almost adorably cute, and part of him was tempted to tell the Warden that, but the more sensible part of his mind convinced him otherwise, lest he ended up with a hard fist punched into his face), he tightened his grip and dragged his fingers up and down in lazy but firm stroking.

The Warden shifted; the hands around Zevran's waist tightening as the other man groaned, hips bucking up into Zevran's lightly pumping grip, the corrugated muscles of his abdomen rippling with each movement. The cock in his hands pulsed, and a single droplet of clear fluid formed at its tip—which Zevran immediately took advantage of, pressing his thumb over it and circling the wetness around the purpling head, and was rewarded with the sight of the Warden arching, his body a taut bow, and a low, keening sound ripping out of the other man's throat.

_Beautiful._

The sight of the Warden so uninhibited, so  _responsive_  to even such a simple touch, made Zevran's throat tighten, and the heated ache between his own legs grew to an almost unbearable pain. The tightness of his breeches did nothing to ease the throbbing.

He was already straddling one of the Warden's legs; it was easy to simply lower his hips down and rock forward against the hard thigh with every stroke of his hand, his own breaths already growing shorter half in time with the Warden's panting.

The Warden's large hands—still gripping his waist earlier—slipped down, glided over Zevran's hips, then down along the pulsing thighs to the knees, then up again, a slow and appreciative caress that made Zevran close his own eyes, roll his hips and purr in response.

Then those hands reversed, stroked back up his thighs…and paused at the joints between his hips and his legs.

He could sense the Warden's hesitation in the twitching of the fingers—as if he wanted to touch further, but dared not. Cracking his eyes open, he glanced down at the Warden, who was staring at the junction between Zezran's spread legs, screened by his knee-length tunic, then the gaze rose to meet Zevran's.

The look on the Warden's face was a helpless fascination, mixed by a great deal of uncertainty.

Clearly, the Warden was having doubts. Zevran mentally sighed, but he'd known the Warden would not adapt so quickly, with his lack of experience and all. He hid his disappointment with a reassuring smile at the Warden. "If you're not ready for that, it's all right."

The Warden blinked. Once, twice, and then his eyes narrowed, his lips thinned—an intimidating look that was almost ruined by the delicate blush that bloomed on his face. "Get on your knees and take off your tunic."

The commanding tone—muttered through gritted teeth—surprised Zevran, but a raised brow at the Warden got no response. Shrugging, he let go of the Warden's erection (smirking when he heard the Warden sigh out in a breath), and then straightening up to a kneeling position again (much to the protest of his body), grabbed the hem of his own tunic and pulled it up, off, tossing it aside so he was bared to the waist. The cold air hit his sweat-damp body, and he shivered slightly.

The Warden seemed to not notice, or not care—the man's gaze had dropped from Zevran's eyes, slowly drifting down from his neck to his toned chest and abdomen, and fixed lingeringly on the telltale bulge between his legs, before drifting up a little higher...

Zevran watched as one winged brow rose. "Just how  _low_ do those tattoos of yours go?"

He glanced down, following the Warden's gaze to where the dark, curling ink snaked over his belly and disappeared into the waist of his breeches, then looked up, waited until the Warden's eyes rose to meet his, and then he smirked. "Quite a bit lower." His smile took on a challenging edge. "Care to find out?"

The Warden smiled right back. "Damn right I'd care," he said, his hands rising and rather deftly flicking off the buttons on Zevran's breeches. His tone was arrogant, his smile confident—only the slightest hint of shaking in those fingers betrayed how nervous his innocent-in-loving-between-men Warden  _really_  was. "Especially when you put it like that…" The last button popped free, and the flap dropped down. Zevran stifled a sigh of relief as his cock blessedly fell free from the confines of his breeches, bobbing in the air in front of him.

He had carefully watched the Warden the whole while—for signs of disgust, or (Maker forbid) fear. But none of that was forthcoming—instead, the Warden's eyes had widened, and his jaw had dropped.

There was a moment of stunned silence, before the Warden breathed: "Holy Maker…you actually had tattoos inked  _on your cock?_ "

Zevran grinned. The voice was full of disbelief—and a good deal of fascination. "The answer to that question is rather obvious, no?" He arched his back slightly, letting his hand swipe down from chest to hip, ostensibly to wipe off the thin sheen of sweat that had coated his torso but in truth to provide a show for the Warden's eyes, following his tattoos from the middle of his right chest down along his belly and further still to where the ink trailed into his groin, ending as a curl around the base of his shaft.

The Warden had followed his hands, the look on the handsome face one of arrested fascination. When Zevran's hand fell away from his body just before he reached his aching erection, the Warden blinked, then visibly swallowed.

"…Right." The deep voice sounded a little dry-mouthed. "Not that I don't approve—I like,  _really like_ , honest—but…sharp pointy things and sensitive cock do not mix well in my head."

Zevran laughed, both at the obviousness of the words and the choked, breathless quality that had roughened the Warden's usually velvet-smooth voice. "Not usually."

"Hmm." The Warden's gaze was assessing, almost studying, on Zevran's arousal. A tiny smile made the tips of the other man's lips curve upwards—his hand reached out, and hovered, fingers just  _barely_  touching the flesh that was already aching for friction.

Zevran waited, somewhat impatiently, with a raised eyebrow and a crooked smile. His skin prickled with the proximity, and he was somewhat mindlessly aware of the minute increase of the heat in the air; when the Warden made no inclination to move, the human still mutely staring at Zevran's body, the elf mentally cursed, then raised his hand, fully intending to close those damnably  _almost-there_  fingers about himself—

…only those fingers curled of their own accord, fisting around Zevran's cock.

The sudden contact made him jump, unwittingly pushing his cock into that callused, loose fist—a heartfelt groan was ripped from his throat before he could even  _think_  of restraining it.

Then the hand shifted, moved, and Zevran stopped thinking for a moment, his wits spluttering out and dying with a happy sigh.

Dimly, he heard the Warden's wicked,  _smug_  chuckle, and driven by an innate sense of fairness—with a hint of cheerful revenge thrown in—he blindly reached out and curled his fingers over the Warden's still-rigid arousal, and was pleased to hear that laughter break off into a soft groan.

And then they were both touching each other, their respective stroking slightly off-tempo with each other but that was all right—even though the experienced lover in Zevran quietly made a note to correct that some other time—because the Warden may not be experienced in having sex with other men he (likely from his own experience) clearly knew how to tease, and then excite, lingering on pleasure points like the rim of the head, and the little point of nerves beneath that head (he had to bite back a yelp when the Warden's thumb pressed in and then slid back and forth over that point), and even with some slight fumbling Zevran found himself slowly but steadily spiraling up to the peak of pleasure.

Halfway through the Warden's free hand reached out, grabbed Zevran around his wrist, and hauled him forward and down—almost making him let go of the Warden but he caught himself, changed his grip in time, and he managed to land, rather awkwardly, on his elbow, and he let some of his weight rest on that.

The Warden let go of that wrist—and then the human propped himself up on one elbow, half-sitting up, and their lips met, clashed in a sloppy wet kiss that somehow intensified the flames coursing through Zevran's veins to where they pooled, white-hot, in his groin, and the Warden's large hand itself was a heavenly contradiction of sensations, soft and yet not, hardened calluses over smooth palms, and Zevran eagerly rocked into that loose-curled fist even while the Warden was outright thrusting, pumping into his own hand.

He sensed the Warden's body tensing, coiling, like a drawn bowstring, and the heated flesh in his hand seemed to swell, grow more rigid. Breaking away from the mating of tongues that had left them both more breathless than they already were, he pulled back, and stared, his mouth parted as he breathed hard, and watched the Warden's face, the handsome visage flushed, the eyes half-closed as if the human was almost asleep, the lips red and swollen and slick from their kiss and hanging slightly open as little groaning breaths puffed out from those lips.

And the tension visibly grew, and grew, the muscles of the Warden's body bulging with it—

The Warden's eyes suddenly widened; Zevran saw the pupils dilate, turning his eyes nearly black, and then the lids squeezed shut and the head tilted back and the Warden let out a half-choked-back scream that sent a warm burst of masculine pride through Zevran as he quickly cupped his hand over the Warden's cock and just managed to catch the gush of warm seed in his hand.

He  _ached_ , his cock harder than he ever felt before, full to almost bursting—but even the physical discomfort was nothing compared to the satisfaction he felt when he watched the tightness passion had woven into the Warden's features slowly fade away, replaced by that mesmerizing expression of sexual release.

He had always enjoyed seeing it on his lover's faces—and, in a darker corner of his mind, enjoyed it even more when he finally raised his dagger and calmly killed, watching that ultimate expression of life replaced by quick shock before it all leeched away into Death's embrace—but seeing it on the Warden…

As he looked down on the patrician face, the normally harsh lines softened by the aftermath of climax, he felt his heart contract.

_Marvelous._

The Warden stirred—his eyes fluttered open, slightly dazed, before they cleared, alighted on Zevran's face.

Zevran watched as the Warden blinked, then smiled, softly, mischief sparking in those eyes before the hand around his cock tightened and sped up its pace.

A distraction that he was welcome to receive. Groaning, he arched over the Warden, his eyes closing shut as he moved bodily into that hand, his hips rolling and shuddering in an erratic, desperate rhythm that somehow managed to match the movements of that soft-yet-not hand gliding up and down his shaft, and that heat in his groin spiraled and curled and tightened as his heart seemed to pound until he could feel it beating all the way to the tips of his toes and fingers and he  _burned_  with a desperate yearning that made his toes curl.

The Warden shifted, sitting up a little higher, the pace of his hand not slowing the least bit, and the lips were brushing against his ear, lightly, and he moaned at that extra sensation on top of nerves that felt like they were ready to snap.

"Zevran," the Warden whispered, and the warm puff of his breath was another almost-too-much sensation. "Open your eyes and look."

He heard the words—it took a while before he actually could  _understand_  them. When he did, he cracked opened his eyes…

His head had been bowed, his chin almost touching the very top of his chest—the first thing he saw was his own arousal, almost purple with the blood that had pooled in it, and the Warden's hand gliding over it.

The sight transfixed him, and then the Warden's hand shifted, the thumb brushing  _hard_  over the head—

And that undid him; suddenly he hit the peak, heat lancing through him and he groaned loudly as he spilled past the fingers and splashed on the Warden's bared lower belly, the Warden's hand still pulling, drawing out the high until he keened low in his throat, and then he was falling, tumbling into the warm sea of sated pleasure.

His legs, and his supporting arm, trembled; with a sigh, he let himself topple sideways and onto his back, absently careful to not let his semen-slick hand drip or—Maker forbid—land on the wolf's fur, letting it fall with an obscene little  _splat_  on his belly.

He was breathing hard—the Warden was not doing much better, although having more time to recover it was noticeably softer and slower than his panting.

Eventually he managed to gather and piece together enough of his wits to turn his head, looking at the Warden.

Found the human lying down, shoulders half-turned towards Zevran and one arm propping up his head, the eyes bright and a lazy, satisfied smile curving his lips.

Zevran noted the smugness that glinted in those eyes, and he smirked. "I think I would not need to bother asking if that was good for you, yes?" he teased lightly.

The grin widened, giving Zevran a glimpse of strong, square teeth. "Hmm," the Warden just hummed in answer, and then he shifted, and without bothering to sit up he wiggled out of his tunic, and then used it to wipe up the little puddles of come on his belly.

Wordlessly, still grinning, the Warden leaned over, and taking Zevran's arm by the wrist—an easy thing, since Zevran was pretty much boneless at that point, and he was disinclined to even bother offering a token resistance—wiped his hand, and then his own stomach, clean, before he balled up the soiled tunic and tossed it to a far side of the tent.

Zevran's heartbeat had slowed, and his body had cooled down by that point—he felt the coldness prickling at the bared skin, and by the time the Warden had refastened his breeches closed, crawled out from the furs and returned with a thick woolen blanket, the elf was starting to shiver.

Something which did not escape the Warden's notice—laughing softly, the human drew the blanket up and over both of them, and laughed even more when Zevran immediately snuggled into the warm material. "Maker, Zevran," he said, his voice full of amusement. "It's not even  _that_  cold."

Zevran looked up as the Warden settled back into the pelts, snorted. "To you Fereldens, maybe—this is a harsh cold by Antivan standards."

"You'll get used to it," the Warden said, and there was a merry smugness in his tone that made Zevran itch to kick him. "And this is  _nothing_ —you should go up north. Highever is a whole lot colder." A brief darkness passed over the Warden's face, but then he smiled again, brightly. "But I suppose it's not fair to compare you and I."

Zevran laughed softly as he idly reached down beneath the blanket and redid the buttons, closing the fall-flap of his breeches. He glanced sideways, smirked. "Well, we're similar where it counts the most, no?"

The Warden grinned, and then his arm reached over, pulled Zevran close against the muscular body. A welcome thing; Zevran happily curled up, and then settled against the warm torso.

He heard a soft chuckle, and he felt the Warden's nose and lips press lightly to the top of his head, almost the same way that the Warden had done before last night, except this time the lips lingered, brushed lightly before they left.

Felt the odd little flutter of his heartbeat again, as before.

Zevran mentally frowned at that. The odd feeling was unusual—certainly something he'd never felt with another lover before. And there was a strange, almost vulnerable quality to it that sent his assassin instincts into alarm.

 _This dalliance between you and the Warden is a physical thing_ , he quietly reminded himself.  _Nothing more. Certainly nothing worth thinking about beyond what pleasures they can draw from each other._

Then the Warden murmured, snatching him back from his thoughts. "It's still early outside." There was a good deal of amusement in the Warden's voice when he spoke. "Do you have another way to spend the remaining hours?"

Zevran glanced up, noted that the light from beyond the tent's flap had lightened, but not by much—and the air was still ridiculously cold.

And to be honest, he was really too sated to do more than curl up and doze.

"Mm…" He peered up at the Warden. "Perhaps we should just sleep them off, no?"

The wolfish grin flashed at Zevran. "Are you sure?" The Warden's voice was outright mischievous now. "Because we could just throw off these blankets, and let the air chill our bodies before we heat things up…"

Zevran really liked that idea of heating things up. He really did. But his mind stuttered the moment the Warden suggested throwing off the warm blanket, and his body, already relaxed and comfortably warm, protested at the idea of 'chill our bodies'. So he reached up with one hand, and gripped the Warden's ear.

Not so lightly tugged on it.

The Warden yelped, making Zevran smirk, and he laughed when the human reached up and rubbed the offended ear, giving Zevran a look that was almost but not quite a pout.

"All right, no throwing off blankets." Sighing dramatically, the Warden shifted lower, and curved his arms around Zevran. "…spoilsport."

"Shut up," Zevran said pleasantly, without any heat in his words, then buried his face in the Warden's chest and promptly fell asleep.

_~to be continued~_


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No beta for this chapter; all mistakes are my own.

 

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 20_

* * *

The sun rose and warmed the day far too soon.

He was dimly, dreamily aware when the Warden's arms slid away from him, and with them the warm body as well. He grumbled, turned over, grabbing the loosely piled furs and blanket to him to hold in that marvelous warmth, and slid back into bliss-filled slumber.

He was floating, boneless, content on some warm and gentle sea when a large hand closed on his shoulder and shook.

"Come on," came the clipped accents. "Wake up—day's warm enough for even you, sun-spoilt brat."

Cracking open even one eye took some serious effort; squinting up, he saw the Warden, fully dressed, leaning over him. It was light enough that he could see the color of those keen eyes, and the amused expression on the handsome face.

But not, he noted, all that light either. Judging from the wash of light through the thin walls of the tent, it wasn't even mid morning yet.

He smiled, closed his eye, reached up and curled his fingers around the Warden's wrist. "Relax, my dear Warden. There is time yet for more fun, yes?" He tugged, lips curving as sweet memories of recent activity washed over him. "I have yet to teach you many, many things."

Above him, he heard the Warden sigh. Heavily. Then the hand attached to the wrist he'd grasped shifted, closed about  _his_  wrist—and the Warden straightened, the full weight of that heavy-boned, densely-muscled body behind that little movement.

A movement that, nevertheless, rather effectively yanked Zevran unceremoniously from his warm cocoon of wool and fur.

His eyes snapped open. "Wha—?"

The Warden caught both his arms and—with ridiculous ease—hauled him off the bed of pelts and to his knees. "We have a lot of travelling to do, and now's not the time to dawdle around playing the five-knuckle shuffle with each other."

"Playing the—" Zevran burst out laughing. "Are you serious?"

The Warden had fetched Zevran's tunic—which had ended up draped over the Warden's armor, it turned out—and was shaking it out. "Oil the glove. Hug the nug. Play the skin flute. Polish the family jewels. Abusing the wicked staff. Bash the candle. Twirl the pike. Charming the trouser snake. Crown the king. Fondling the lamppost. Wank with the one-eyed wonder wyrm. Have I made your ears bleed yet?"

Zevran stared, slack-jawed, at the Warden as the human shifted on his knees towards him with the tunic and held it out to him. "Have you made those up just now?" he asked, his voice awed.

The Warden grinned wolfishly. "That's not even a quarter of the list I have in my head. And that's the  _polite_  list. Are you going to take this back and put it on, or do I have to haul your arse out there with you half-naked?" He waved the tunic in his hand.

Zevran blinked, and then smirked, snatching the tunic back. "Someday you'll have to write down that list."

The Warden laughed a deep belly-laugh that warmed Zevran's insides better than even the furs did, and then winked. "Maybe. Go put that on, I'm going to see if anyone's making breakfast." With that he strode easily past the elf and ducked out of the tent.

Zevran glanced at the lightly waving tent flap, and then looked at his tunic. Sighed, and shrugged it back on.

Idly thought back to their pleasant morning interlude; the ensuring images brought a smile to his face.  _Such a beautiful, marvelously magnificent lover, his Warden._

Grinning broadly, he went in search of his belt, all the while thinking of plans to add to his sensual memories of the Warden in bed.

Eventually he managed to find his belt—with no damage on it, thank the Maker—and fully dressed again he clambered out of the tent.

A few members of their party were already up and about the campfire, lingering over a large pot (Alistair in particular, the greedy bastard) and eating what seemed to smell like a hearty wild game broth. The Warden, he noticed, appeared to be nowhere in sight.

Wondering at that, he shrugged and ambled over to the fire—

"Zevran! Over here!"

He halted. Turned.

Saw Leliana sitting on a log, holding a bowl in her other hand and waving with the other.

He felt his mouth curve in response to her bright smile, and he strolled over. "My dear Leliana," he purred, once he was near enough to speak without shouting. "How may I be of service?"

Her eyebrow quirked, but she ignored the lewd suggestion underlining his words and instead picked up a still-steaming bowl of broth that had been set down beside her on the log. "Here," she said, holding it out to him. "I saved some for you, before the Warden and Alistair both polished off the pot."

He raised his brows, surprised, and a little touched. "Why, thank you," he said, sincere as he could be while he took the bowl.

"You're welcome." She tipped her head, not so subtly indicating the space beside her. Curious now, he took her hint and sat down, balancing the broth on his legs—the thick clay bowl was warm, and the heat welcome for such a cold morning.

"I wanted to apologize," she said softly. She was looking at her own bowl. "For last night, I mean."

Zevran snorted with laughter. "My dear, I believe the Warden is the one you should be apologizing to."

"I already did, before he left to take Anlan for a walk." She peeked sideways at him from beneath her lashes. "About last night… I wasn't expecting  _you_  to be there with him. I mean, I really didn't think…I didn't think the Warden would prefer other men."

Zevran smirked at her somewhat surprised tone. "If it is any comfort to you, my dear,  _he_  didn't think that he would prefer it either—until I showed him otherwise." He said the last with a voice that dripped with lascivious intent.

She smiled at that. "I just bet you did," she said drily. She glanced around, seeming to note that they were about as private as they could get around the campfire (The others that were around were busy: Oghren was somehow roaring drunk again and attempting to preposition Morrigan—Alistair was keeping them both apart before the witch could fry the dwarf), and then she leaned in slightly, her voice lowering. "Personally, I was surprised that it took you this long to…umm…spend the night with the Warden."

That comment made Zevran snicker. "Not for a lack of trying on my part, I assure you. The Warden is a difficult man to catch."

She giggled, her fingers fluttering over her mouth. "So I gathered," she said impishly, eyes sparkling. "I've noticed you watching him, you know, when we're travelling together. It looked like you were undressing him in your mind. So shameless."

"Growing up in a whorehouse tends to make one less concerned about things like shame and propriety," he said gaily, taking a spoonful of broth as he did. It was, indeed, hearty, and had the distinctly home-cooked feel of Wynne's cooking—he wondered where the elder mage had gone off to, since she was not at the campfire.

Leliana was giggling again at his offhand comment. "Well, I don't blame you. The Warden  _is_  an attractive man, isn't he?" She sighed. "Strong, stoic, both ruthless and capable kindness…a gentleman to all, yet with a roguish gleam in his eyes that promises wicked pleasure for the one that manages to catch them."

Zevran listened to her little monologue as he ate, noticed the dreamy look in her eyes, the longing tone in her voice, and smirked. "Why, Leliana, are you  _sweet_  on the Warden?"

She glanced at him, and smiled, apologetically. "I  _was_  sweet on him, as you put it. It was very hard not to be." She let out a sad sigh. "Unfortunately it became rather clear early on that he saw me as a good friend, or even a sister." Her lips twisted. "Not that it was anything bad, mind you, but it does dash one's hopes of a more romantic entanglement, yes? Oh, well." She grinned. "But now he has you to occupy his bed with, no?"

Zevran chuckled. "For the moment, yes."

A quiet, companionable silence fell, as they both ate their breakfast in silence. Zevran  _did_  notice, however, that Leliana kept shooting little sideways glances at him, an inquiring light in her eyes. After enduring the darting looks for a while, he sighed, and turned to look at her. "What is it?"

She didn't start—to her benefit—but she did go very still. "What is what?" she asked innocently.

"You're curious about something, and whatever it is, it's something concerning me. You're not hiding it very well, my dear."

She laughed self-consciously, blushing slightly. "Oh. Uh, I wasn't…I don't want to pry…"

Zevran snorted. "Leliana, just ask. If I don't feel comfortable with it I'll decline, and at least you'll know whether or not I'd care to discuss such things, no?"

"Oh, if you put it that way…" Again with the furtive glancing around, checking for eavesdroppers, and then she leaned in even closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I was wondering…just how good is the Warden in bed?"

There was a moment of stunned silence as Zevran stared at her. Then he blinked, cleared his throat. "Is that all?"

She smiled and nodded.

He blinked again. Shifted, put his bowl on the log, some distance away from himself.

And then gave into the urge that had been strangling him since she asked that question and burst out laughing, bending over his legs and clutching his sides.

"Zevran!" Leliana's voice was outraged, which made him laugh all the harder. She cuffed him on the arm not-so-lightly. "Stop that, it isn't funny!"

With some effort, he put a leash on his hilarity and pulled it back to heel. He looked up at her, his eyes bright with remaining mirth. "Wait…that's your question? You wanted to know how good the Warden was in bed?"

"I believe I just asked that," she said, a little tartly. The look she gave Zevran was one of wariness. "I'm not prying, am I?"

"No." Chuckling, he sat back up, and picked up his bowl again. "Why do you wish to know, my dear?"

"Well, we  _are_  travelling together, yes?" She smiled, brightly. "And I always feel that it is in my interest to study those that I travel with."

A practical consideration—he approved of it, but that was hardly all of it. "And you are looking for gossip," he stated, amused in spite of himself.

"That, too," she admitted. She looked at him expectantly. "So…how is the Warden…?"

Zevran smirked, his eyelids falling to half mast, as he tipped his head back and mentally relived the physical moments he had shared with the Warden. "Mmm…well, he is a passionate man—I think you'd have noticed that, no?"

She giggled again, nodding.

He smiled at that, as he continued to extol on the Warden's sexual manners. "Strong-willed, but not overpowering, a man willing to compromise for the sake of greater pleasure. Attentive to the needs of his lover. And quick to learn." He chuckled. "Also, magnificently uninhibited, once you manage to capture his attention."

"Oooh…" Leliana's eyes had widened in fascination. "The Warden is wild in bed?"

"Intriguingly so." He grinned. "I know, I know, he doesn't seem like the sort of man who'd behave as such, since he's so grim most of the time. But I think the wildness is a natural result of pent-up emotion, don't you think so?"

She smiled at that. "A good point, and more true than not." She arched a brow at him. "He sounds like a prize."

"That he is," Zevran murmured, and Leliana giggled again.

"Oh, you should have heard your voice when you spoke of the Warden," she said, her eyes twinkling. "Such…how should I say this…fondness? Affection, even."

Zevran stared at her. "Really?" he asked neutrally, even as mentally he felt the beginnings of a panic.

"Mm-hmm." She nodded. "It's so adorable, really. And the two of you together…" Her eyes seemed to mist over. "It's so sweet."

Zevran laughed—a little bit too wildly. "Well, we do enjoy each other's company. We are both sure of our own wants regarding pleasure."  _Nothing more, nothing less. That is all there is to it._

She smiled, raising her brows. "Is that all?"

Zevran was saved from having to reply by the crunch of a heavy boot on gravel.

"What do we have here?"

They both looked up as the Warden strode over. Anlan milled and pranced about his legs as he walked, barking playfully. He stopped before them, crossing his arms and looking at them.

"An Orlesian bard and an Antivan Crow, sitting with each other and putting their heads together while talking in quiet voices." He broke off briefly when Anlan leaned on his leg, panting—he bent down, patted the large hound on its head, and made a shooing motion, one which the mabari followed with a happy bark before loping away. Then he straightened and looked at them again, arms crossing over his chest as he raised an eyebrow. "Two people, both well trained in the arts of intrigue and shadowy secrets, discussing something clearly secret themselves. Should I be worried?"

Zevran grinned at the dry tone of the Warden's question. "Actually, my dear Warden, we were discussing you."

"Really?" The other brow rose to join its twin. "And what is there to discuss about?"

"We were talking about your performance in bed," Leliana said before Zevran could come up with a reply. He choked on laughter at her bald statement, and the innocent expression that went with it.

The eyebrows shot clear to the Warden's hairline. He stared, and then that distinctly wolfish grin appeared on his face. "Is that so?"

Leliana nodded, still maintaining that innocent expression. "Yes. Zevran was telling me all about it." She looked at him, smirked. "Weren't you, Zevran?"

He smirked back. "Just so."

"I see." The Warden stared at Zevran, still grinning. "Care to share what you've just told her?"

"Well, well, wouldn't you like to know?" Zevran said, quirking a brow.

"Considering that this is  _my_  bedroom skills we're discussing, I'd really like to know."

Quite suddenly Zevran saw an opportunity to goad the Warden into future possibilities for seduction—and being a blatant opportunist, he seized on it with relish. "As you wish." He shrugged, and then smiled mischievously. "I was just telling that you are…hm, decent, but not quite the best I had."

He sensed Leliana giving him a surprised look, but he kept his gaze away from her and resolutely fixed on the Warden, watching the human's reaction.

The Warden had gone still, very still. The grin was still there, but it had sharpened, grown edgy. "Is that so?"

"You heard what I said." Pondering the possible results of this, he rather prudently set his bowl aside, before he looked up and raised a deliberately insolent brow at the Warden. "I  _know_ you have it in you to be more…what's the word…energetic about it, no? But you've held yourself back. A bit of a disappointment, really." His voice was carefully bored.

Irritation flared in the Warden's eyes, accompanied with knife-sharp amusement. "A disappointment?" he said, in a voice that vibrated with both fury and laughter.

"Yes, a disappointment." Zevran knew he was walking a very thin line now—if he pushed too hard, stepped too hard on the Warden's pride, the other man might actually grow furious, and Zevran can kiss his plans for more sex with the Warden goodbye before he could even give a last kiss. He paused, deliberately, letting the words sink into the Warden's mind, before he sliced out the final, decisive cut. "Of course, what we had was only an appetizer with regards to sex, no? So I might be wrong—but you'll have to prove it."

The keen eyes narrowed to dangerous slits—for a very brief moment, Zevran worried that he had, indeed, pushed too far. But then the Warden blinked, and the anger vanished.

Only to be replaced by something just as fiery and passionate as the Warden laughed darkly and deliberately advanced towards Zevran. "A disappointment, is it?" he practically growled the words, every inch of that massive body excluding predatory intent as he stood over Zevran. A hand had reached out, one finger extended and tipping Zevran's chin up to look up fully into the Warden's face.

"I think," the Warden said, still with that low rumbling growl, "I will have to rectify that—I can't have such slander on my reputation go away unheeded, you understand."

Zevran smiled, raising his brows—mentally, he crowed with triumph. "Oh-ho, what's this? Are you going to kiss me, in front of an audience?"

The Warden stared at him for a while, eyes dark with sensual purpose, before the other man slowly turned his head to look at a slack-jawed, openly-fascinated Leliana. "Well?" the Warden asked, as he raised a winged brow. "Do you object?"

She blinked at the question, and then recovered from her shock, smiling. "Oh, go on you two," she said, laughter in her voice.

The Warden grinned—briefly—before he turned back to Zevran.

The hand that had tipped his head up dropped, twisted in the collar of Zevran's tunic—and yanked him up forcibly to his feet, strong enough that he was barely on his toes.

He had one very brief instant to think that setting his bowl aside was, indeed, a wise decision, and then the Warden's head bent, and firm lips closed over his own.

Crushed them. A hard, bruising swipe, and then the Warden's head angled, tongue forcing between his lips, and then the man devoured them, devoured his mouth.

Devoured  _him._  Filled his mouth, captured his tongue and caressed, seized his senses and dragged them down into a rapidly escalating heat with an eager urgency that Zevran, even with his years of experience, suddenly found he was powerless to resist.

The Warden fed him fire and passion, and more. Pressed on him a taste of raw possession, not just of his mouth but of everything else; an undisguised, dangerously explicit portent of what would come in the future, of the other man's unleashed hunger, of Zevran's heady response.

And Zevran's ultimate surrender.

Of that, the Warden left no doubt.

The magnitude of it curled Zevran's toes.

Dimly, he heard the Warden laughing as, with a final nip on his lower lip, the other man let go of both his mouth and tunic. The sudden release very, very nearly made him stumble, both physically and mentally—only years of physical training made him plant his feet firmly, even with his suddenly watery knees, and he quickly blinked through the sensual daze that had enveloped him.

"That good enough for you?" the Warden asked, his voice harsh with edgy passion and dark amusement.

Zevran chased away the last of the fog over his wits. Considered the Warden's words, and then looked up.

Raised a brow as he gave the taller man a smirk. "Well, that depends. Was that a threat or a promise?"

The Warden looked at him, studied him, eyes slightly narrowed. "…A promise," the Warden finally said, softly. The wolf's grin showed up again, sharper and more dangerous than Zevran had ever seen thus far. "…and a warning."

With that, he inclined his head, and turned, strode away from Zevran, towards his tent.

Zevran stared after the Warden, stunned, still reeling slightly—he sensed Leliana watching the Warden's retreating back as well.

He waited, waited, until the Warden ducked beneath the tent's flap and disappeared from sight, before he let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding in a whoosh, his legs folding under him as he fell back, sitting, on the log.

"…Wow."

Leliana's voice was breathless, and full of awe. Zevran looked at her; she was still staring at the tent, her mouth hanging slightly open, her eyes wide.

Was that his imagination, or was there a slight blush on her cheeks?

Then her mouth closed, and she turned to look at him. Smiled brightly. "That was…" She visibly struggled to find words (a feeling Zevran could understand; he was at a loss for words himself), before finally she blurted out: "…hot!" She giggled—yes, that was  _definitely_  a blush—and she gave Zevran an impish look. "You're so, so lucky, Zevran," she gushed. "If he was  _that_ passionate even with a kiss…" She shivered a pleased little shiver. "I can't imagine what it would be like when he is, err, fully engaged physically."

He forced his face to relax and give her a lazy smile. "Yes, well, that's how it is."

"…Wow," she murmured again. She gave him a considering look. "I have to say, what you did just now…smooth, but a bit manipulative, no? And very risky. What if he'd lost his temper?"

He chuckled at her words. "Leliana, my dear, I am an assassin. My life was one of constant risk—this was nothing compared to that."

"Hmm…" She frowned in consideration. "…I suppose that might be right. In a somewhat twisted way." She shrugged, glanced at his near-empty bowl. "Do you want any more broth?" When he shook his head, she spoke again: "I'll help you clean that up, yes?"

"If you wish."

She smiled at him, fondly, and then stood up with a dancer's grace. "I'll see you later, Zevran." She gave him a wink. "Good luck, with the Warden."

He looked, but not really seeing it, as Leliana walked around him and picked up his bowl before leaving him alone.

 _'A promise_ … _and a warning.'_

The Warden's words teased him, taunted him.

Scared him.

_'Good luck, with the Warden.'_

Yes, he would take all the good luck he could get. If that kiss was any indication, he had  _vastly_  underestimated the sensual depth the Warden was capable of.

And the ability the man had to completely sweep away Zevran's thoughts, send him whirling into a sensual storm from which he had no defense against.

The Warden was not just dangerously exciting—he was  _truly_ a danger.

He shivered—in both fear and twisted pleasure—and then laughed helplessly.

Well, he had successfully baited the wolf.

Now he had to deal with the fact that said wolf possessed a mouthful of very sharp teeth.

_~to be continued~_


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No beta for this chapter; all mistakes are my own.

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 21_

* * *

The Warden didn't follow up on his promise.

Zevran didn't know if he should be pleased or angry about that.

But he knew one thing for sure: he was getting worried.

Very worried.

Since that little morning interlude, the Warden had not invited Zevran back to his tent. In fact, the Warden barely talked to Zevran at all during their following two-week journey to Lake Calenhad.

He'd been irritated (and  _hurt_ , if he were honest to himself) that the Warden was avoiding him (again), but after a bit of calm thinking, something had seemed… _off_  about the Warden's avoidance.

Careful scrutiny revealed that the Warden had not only been barely talking to Zevran—he was doing the same to  _everyone else._

The only people he talked with that obviously went beyond casual greetings were Morrigan and Alistair.

With the former, the Warden argued; every night, consistently, at her secluded personal spot beyond the main camp. They'd be talking in quiet tones, but with visibly angry expressions on their faces—and it would always end the same way, with Morrigan throwing up her hands in the air in obvious exasperation before she looked amongst her bags and pulled out a small flask, which she would then give the Warden.

With the latter, the Warden would approach when they set up camp. Talking in quiet tones again, but their faces would be serious, almost darkly grim. Occasionally, their conversation would heat up, with Alistair seeming to be trying to convince the Warden about something—which the Warden would, without fail, dismiss with a shake of his head, or a quick slice of his hand through the air.

On their own, he would have dismissed as the usual party 'drama'—but his instincts were alerting him that something was clearly amiss here.

He continued to observe, to watch.

And realized that the Warden had not been sleeping well. If at all.

Oh, it wasn't obvious—if only because the Warden made sure to stay out of everyone's way. But the human was growing paler with each passing night, and his eyes were growing more and more haunted. At times, the Warden would be so clearly exhausted that he seemed to barely be able to stand on his own feet.

He remembered that the Warden had awoken early when they had their morning play—if the Warden had not been sleeping consistently sense then, or even before that…

When they'd walked into the Spoiled Princess, and were then ambushed by a clearly insane group of warriors, Zevran watched the Warden as they plunged into the thick of battle.

Saw that the Warden's reflexes were slower, much slower than usual, his movements clumsy and sluggish.

At the end of the battle, when the last of the madmen fell, the Warden stabbed his own sword into the ground, and then leaned heavily on it.

Even though he was a few feet away from the Warden, Zevran could hear the human's heavy, wheezing breaths through his helmet.

It made the elf's worry turn into alarm.

And not a small bit of anger.

Cursing quietly to himself, he'd resisted the urge to stride over and demand an explanation of what was going on from the Warden—bone-stubborn human that he was, the Warden would likely either dismiss Zevran the way he'd dismissed Alistair, or he would simply shut up and not say a single word.

So he leashed the anger, and prowled, waited until nightfall.

As he'd expected, the Warden went to see Morrigan again—this time, however, instead of watching from a distance away, Zevran simply blended into the shadows and approached the two of them, close enough that he could actually hear what they were saying…

Morrigan had frowned, crossing her arms and shaking her head. "Warden, I cannot give you another dose. 'Tis too risky for you to take such a remedy for such a long period of time."

"I wouldn't ask if I didn't think it was necessary," the Warden growled, bristling. "You yourself said that it wouldn't be fatal."

"'Twould not be so on its own," she retorted. She gave the Warden a look of concern—something that Zevran didn't think the witch could feel. "But this forced sleep you are having is not a true rest—your body, and your mind, would eventually grow tired, exhausted, and then deteriorate. If you do not collapse or go mad, your weakened state would mean that you'd tire all too quickly in a fight. I still think you should go to Wynne—"

"And then what? Let her brew a tisane, which wouldn't work? Or get her to cast a sleep spell, which wouldn't help either and would only shorten her lifespan? Or force myself to stop all of this, and let Alistair take over?" the Warden shook his head. "He's not ready yet, Morrigan. I've been talking with him. I can't stop things now, not when the darkspawn are growing in number, and we have gathered our allies, our army. We are so  _close_ , Morrigan, can't you see that?"

"And what use would you be when you die on the battlefield?" she snapped.

"Better to die on the battlefield than to back down because of weakened health." Morrigan opened her mouth to argue—the Warden raised a hand and glared at her, commanding her silence. "Our allies would see my death as an honorable sacrifice—if I quit, it would be seen as cowardice, a weakness. That is something I cannot risk, not when the ancient treaties are so shaky, not when Loghain is still a threat to the Grey Wardens."

Morrigan scowled—the Warden simply gave her a narrow-eyed stare.

A tense, dangerous silence fell. After a long moment, Morrigan sighed, an annoyed—but resigned—sound. "Have it your way, then," she muttered, going back to her belongings and again retrieving that little vial. "I do not think that I need to warn you about how much you're supposed to take, am I correct?"

"Two drops, through a shallow cut in the wrist," the Warden recited, clearly from memory.

She harrumphed, and then handed the bottle to the Warden. "This  _is_  the final time, Warden," she said warningly. "I will not give you any more—you are already too close to a complete breakdown."

The Warden laughed, a little drily, taking the bottle and tucking it a pocket in his tunic. "Well then, I suppose we'll have to hope my will is enough let me last just a little longer."

Morrigan glared. "You are  _mad._ "

"So I'm told often enough," he replied with a bright cheeriness that was completely at odds with his too-tight smile and dull eyes. "It's one of my attractive points, or so I'm told."

She hissed and waved her hand. "Just  _go._ "

He laughed, and then he dipped quickly and pressed a kiss to her cheek—which she replied with a half-hearted swipe at him, one he avoided easily. "Thank you, Morrigan."

She harrumphed again, making a shooing motion at him—but a tiny smile curved her lips as she did so.

One the Warden undoubtedly noticed—grinning, showing some of his usual vigor, he waved at Morrigan and strode off.

The swamp witch was gazing after the Warden. Her expression was troubled, concerned…and sadly wistful.

Zevran arched a brow at that, even when the coldly haughty mask reappeared as Morrigan went to her pallet.  _Well now, it seems Leliana wasn't the only one that was sweet on the Warden._  He smirked as he slid out of his hiding spot and trailed after the Warden, a quiet and shadowy wraith in the dark. He couldn't blame Morrigan—the Warden had an almost animal magnetism that simply drew the eye, and held it tight.

He should know, having fallen victim to that.

Briefly he wondered if Alistair felt the pull, before inwardly laughing—the boy was a virgin, and straight as a ruler in all things, particularly about sex. Maybe, in an alternate universe, Alistair might actually desire the Warden, but now he simply looked up to the former nobleman like a mentor—ironic, given the Warden's junior status in both age and experience as a Grey Warden.

And then he kicked himself mentally—now was not the time to wonder about chantry-raised bastards' sexual preferences. The Warden was walking somewhat slowly—Zevran couldn't tell if it was from a lack of hurry or a lack of energy. But it suited him just fine.

He simply followed, silent and unseen. And they were on an open field, where he had no place to hide—the fact that the Warden had seemed to completely fail that he was being tailed was a telling indication of just how weary the human had become.

It only made Zevran all the angrier.

Morrigan had chosen a spot that was quite a fair distance from camp—which made the little plan that had formed in Zevran's mind rather easy to pull off. He waited until they were halfway to the main camp—which meant they were more or less out of sight and hearing from everyone—and then he darted, quick-footed, not bothering with stealth, and before the Warden realized anything amiss he'd slipped his hand into the pocket and drew out the vial.

"What the— _hey!_ " The Warden finally realized Zevran's presence—he reached out, attempting to grab Zevran, but the elf was much quicker, even when the Warden was fully alert. The weak, slow attempt to catch him was almost comically easy to dodge; he twisted away from the hands and danced backwards, putting a somewhat safe distance between them.

He was already uncorking the vial as he moved, and lifting it to his nose.

"Zevran!" the Warden exclaimed, his expression shocked. "Wha—?"

He wasn't really listening. He wasn't even  _thinking_ —the sharp tang of the substance within the vial had pierced into his head, sending it reeling. Already he could feel a creeping lethargy settle over his limbs—and then anger, hot and fierce, burned in him, chasing away the leaden feeling of drained stamina.

He was smiling unpleasantly as he jammed the cork back into the little bottle, his gaze sharp as he eyed the Warden.

"Tell me, my dear," he crooned. "Just how long have you been poisoning yourself with soldier's bane every night?"

"It's none of your damned business, Zevran," the Warden hissed. He lunged, and again Zevran dodged, tsking as he lightly danced back out of reach.

"We could do this all night, my dear," he said mockingly, waving the vial in his hand. "But we both know who here has the advantage in both speed and stamina." His eyes narrowed. "How. Long?"

The Warden glared at him. A muscle ticked in his cheek—his eyes were snapping fire, despite the clear dark circles that ringed them. "…three weeks."

The answer, snarled through gritted teeth, momentarily knocked the anger off Zevran, replacing it with shock.  _Three weeks._  If the Warden had been taking the exact dose Morrigan had ordered, and he had been using the same concentration of poison…

… _Maker have mercy._  The Warden had, effectively, been  _forcing_  his body into exhaustion in order to sleep—and because of the continued doses of poison, the hours of sleep that the Warden took would not be enough for him to recover…

The rage that exploded in him made him see red. Snarling, he turned and hurled the vial on the ground. Heard the fragile glass shatter.

"What the—?" The Warden gaped at him, but he didn't care,  _couldn't_  care, letting pure temper drive him forward and onward towards the Warden.

He didn't even fully realize what he was doing until he heard the loud slap of his palm hitting the Warden's cheek. Felt the sting in his hand at the force of it.

The Warden reeled backwards, his own hand rising to gingerly touch the blooming red mark on his face. Then he turned, his face a mask of fury, his mouth opening to roar at Zevran—

"You are an  _idiot._ " Zevran's voice was no more than quiet hiss, but the snarl that vibrated through it caused the Warden's jaw to snap shut with a  _click_  of teeth, the keen eyes widening. With shock, or fear—Zevran couldn't tell, not when the rage still clouded his mind. "Three weeks! Are you out of your mind? No one can go that long without rest, not without severe effects."

The Warden's eyes narrowed again, and his lips curled back in a snarl. "Stay out of this, Zevran. This has nothing to do with you!"

"Nothing to do with me?" Zevran made a sound that might have been a laugh, if there wasn't so much anger in the sound. "My dear, when you let me take that oath of loyalty to you, you have become very much my business."  _Especially when you are killing yourself like this._

"I could very well kill you and free you from that oath," the Warden snapped.

"Oh-ho-ho, in your current state? You can't even lay a finger on me, and you know it." To prove it, Zevran quickly dashed forward and, with the heel of his palm, shoved the Warden in one shoulder. Watched, with no small amount of grim satisfaction, as the Warden stumbled, tried to catch his balance, failed, and landed sprawled on his back. His breath rushed out in a  _whoosh_  at the landing.

Before the human could recover, Zevran had stepped across the Warden, straddled the human over the waist. One hand had twisted in the front of the Warden's tunic, lifting the head off the ground—the other had his dagger in hand and was pointing it under the Warden's jaw.

He felt the human go still as the dagger point lightly grazed across skin—he smiled lazily, unpleasantly, his eyes glittering with his rage.

"Why?" he asked, quietly.

The Warden glanced down at his dagger, looked up, met his gaze. Glared back. "Why do you care?"

_Why did he care?_

A good question. One he didn't know the answer to—but imagining the Warden's body slowly breaking down as the lack of rest took its toll, and knowing that it was self-inflicted…it made his blood boil.

And the idea that the Warden was keeping secrets from him…it felt like a cold vice had closed around his chest, and Dear Maker, it  _hurt_.

He pushed that hurt away, mentally stomped it flat. He had no right to expect the Warden to share such secrets—they were barely friends, after all, and only lovers in the physical sense (even then Zevran acknowledged that they had only skirted the edges of physical intimacy). He was but an assassin who was on the run from his order, sworn in service to the man that had saved his life.

A whoreson-turned-killer whose life depended on the survival of the man beneath him. A man whose body longed for the heat and passion contained within the other man. A man who wanted…he didn't know what he wanted.

Ignoring the Warden's question (and the confusion it brought) he simply let his smile widen. Let his hand slip, ever so slightly, and the dagger pierced flesh, drawing blood, a thin crimson trail running down alongside the Warden's jaw.

"Why don't you just keep pushing yourself until you collapse, hm?" he hissed. "Watching you crawl in the dirt will certainly make us all feel better, no?"

The verbal jab hit its mark—hurt flashed in the brilliant eyes, and Zevran watched as the fight leeched out of the Warden's eyes, and his body. He slumped, his head falling back, his eyes fluttering closed, looking broken...defeated

The sight disgusted Zevran, even if it made his heart ache.

He let go of the tunic, drew the dagger back into its sheath. Crossing his arms, he looked down at the too-pale face. "Why?" he asked quietly.

A long moment of silence fell. He saw the lump in the Warden's throat bob as the human swallowed.

"…I tried," the Warden finally whispered. "I tried, damn it, but they wouldn't go away."

Zevran raised a brow. " _Who_  wouldn't go away?"

"Not 'who', 'what'. The nightmares."

He blinked.  _Nightmares?_   _That_  was what drove the Warden to exhaust himself?

Well, it made sense—in a sick way. An exhausted body could fall into a sleep slow deep it bordered on unconscious. But… "What sort of nightmares would make you willingly poison yourself for three weeks in a row?"

The Warden laughed—a thin, high laugh that had no humor in it. "Trust me, Zevran. You don't want to know."

"Hard to trust someone who keeps too many secrets to himself," Zevran retorted, and saw the Warden flinch at that, before the human glared at him.

"…all right." The words were a quiet mutter. The Warden shifted. "Just…get off me, and I'll tell you."

Zevran snorted, but he slid off the Warden, rising to his feet and extending a hand—which the Warden glared at for a bit, before snarling softly and accepting that hand, letting himself be pulled up.

"Well?" Zevran prompted, once the Warden had straightened.

The Warden was dusting off his trousers, picking out stray blades of dry grass that had clung to the wool—he glanced up briefly, then back down at his trousers. "Not here," he murmured, swatting off the last bit of grass and straightening.

Zevran raised a brow at that. "And why not?"

"Because I'm going to have to tell you a Grey Warden secret, and I'm not fond of the idea that anyone might be eavesdropping."

 _Out on an open field?_  Zevran bit back the sarcasm, smiled instead. "And what makes you think that I'd hold my tongue after you tell me that?"

"It's not a major secret," the Warden murmured with a shrug, and then flashed his wolf's grin. "And should you say a word, I'll cut your tongue out."

"A persuasive argument," Zevran said with a chuckle. "As you wish…I'll keep my mouth shut." He smirked. "So where do you want to discuss this 'secret'?"

The Warden laughed, and a wicked glint shone in his eyes. "Why, were else can I talk with you in private?"

Zevran frowned…realized…raised his brows at the Warden. "Thinking naughty thoughts even now, my dear Warden?"

"Maybe," the Warden said with a cheeky grin, before he quickly sobered. "But aside from that, my tent offers better privacy than here."

"Ah…very well…" Zevran smiled, and then shrugged. "Lead the way then."

Chucking (the sound weaker than Zevran would have liked), the Warden turned to the camp...and paused.

Zevran saw the Warden mutter something after his breath, and then the Warden turned, strode to stand before Zevran.

Strong hands gripped his waist, hauled him to a hard body—just as a hot, demanding mouth covered his.

Forced his lips apart, then the wicked tongue surged in, claiming, branding.

Devastatingly commanding. And the unleashed passion swept him—and the Warden—away.

It had only been two weeks—Zevran had been denied sex for much longer than that. But the pressure of the Warden's mouth against his suddenly broke the chains on his desire—until then smothered by his worry—and it roared free, hungry, slavering, demanding.

He pushed his arms up, draped his arms over broad shoulders, clasped the nape between his hands, and kissed back with equal fierceness, matching, dueling, engaging the Warden on a familiar battlefield of fire and passion.

An engagement that spoke of denied hunger and delayed need, and a promised mutual pleasure.

A sensual tug-of-war that neither could truly win.

The Warden murmured something against his lips, and then pulled back. Immediately Zevran felt the loss of the connection—his wits, his body, were still locked, focused on the Warden. But he allowed the Warden to lift his head, and watched, his breath coming in quick gasps, as the Warden's eyes rose and met his.

A tiny smile lifted the corners of the human's parted lips. "Andraste's blood," the Warden whispered. "Do you have any idea just how  _difficult_  it was to resist you for this long?"

The question made Zevran chuckle. "I have absolutely no idea," he murmured, smirking. He raised his brows. "Why have you resisted, then?"

The smile vanished. "Because you're too damn observant and you'd have noticed my lack of rest far too early."

 _Ahh._  Abruptly the amusement fell flat. Zevran narrowed his eyes. "You were avoiding me."

The Warden winced. "I know. And I'm sorry." The human stepped back, his hands falling away from Zevran's waist. One of them reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. "I mean, it's not like I wanted to avoid you...but…" He sighed, shook his head. "…never mind. Let's just…go. I'll explain in the tent."

"It better be a good explanation," Zevran muttered, following as the Warden turned and headed back to camp. "You owe me that."

"Mmm…" The Warden glanced sideways at Zevran. "Were you worried about me?"

"Of course I am!" Zevran snapped hotly. "You stopped talking to me and everyone else for days on end, and then you start to look like a walking corpse with each day, and after that fight at Lake Calenhad you looked like you could've  _fainted_  and I was afr—" He bit his tongue, stopping the flood of angry words.

Too late. The Warden blinked. Raised his brows. "You were afraid for me?"

 _Damn._  "Of course I was," he muttered, giving the Warden an angry glare. "You are our leader, and as of now my only protection against the Crows. It would be in my best interests to make sure you stay alive, no?"

"…I see." The Warden had started to grin. The eyes were piercing, and as always they saw too much. "..and that's your only reason?"

"It's the most important one," Zevran said, and that was the truth.

Just not all of it.

He wasn't sure if the Warden saw through that. Judging by the sharp grin that had lit up that face, the human had not missed the careful wording of his answer.

Chuckling, the Warden looked away, and Zevran sighed out a breath he had not realized he'd been holding. The Warden kept silent after that, and while the smug air around him prickled at Zevran, the elf was grateful that he didn't question further.

Especially because Zevran had too many questions of his own.

And he had found no answers for too many of them.

_~to be continued~_


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No beta for this chapter; all mistakes are my own.

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 22_

* * *

The Warden seemed to grow wearier and wearier with each step they took towards his tent. By the time they'd reached it, the Warden was more or less swaying on his feet—Zevran had to grip the Warden by the elbow to hold him steady as they ducked into its entrance.

They made quite a sight—the Warden looking pale and drawn, Zevran grim-faced and still wearing his armor. He felt several pairs of eyes staring at them as he led the Warden into the tent. Leliana's gaze was one of concern; Wynne and Alistair's were the same, with a strong dose of suspicion mixed in.

 _As if I would poison the Warden so openly_ , he thought with a quiet snort.

He wondered how they would react when they realized the Warden had been poisoning himself.

…and decided that when  _that_  little bit of news reached their ears, he'd find shelter and then watch the explosion from a safe distance.

The Warden staggered to the bed of wolf pelts, and then tumbled into it, landing belly-down on the furs with a sigh. Zevran watched as the Warden rolled over onto his back, slowly edged backwards to where the furs had been piled up into a slight mound for the head to rest on, and finally settled back into the pelts, propped up by the mound in a position Zevran might have called 'sitting', if he was feeling generous.

The eyes were closed, the chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm—the Warden looked like he'd dozed off. Zevran shifted slightly, the sound of his buckles rubbing against leather making those eyes flutter open and look at him, and then he raised an eyebrow at the Warden. "Are you able to talk now?" Zevran asked.

A tiny smile curved the Warden's lips. "Sure. Here's as good as any." He propped himself up on one elbow—with his free hand patted the space beside him. "Sit down. Hurts my neck having to look up at you like that."

Smirking slightly, Zevran rounded the pelts, and then sat down, carefully, on the edge of the pelt.

The Warden scowled faintly. "Closer, damn it. I'm not going to bite."

Laughing softly now, Zevran shifted closer, until his hip was only several inches away from the Warden's shoulder. He raised his brows in arrogant question. "Close enough?"

"Mmm…" The Warden's lips twitched, a hint of amusement showing in the keen eyes that still looked too haunted. Then he sobered, his eyes sharpening. "How much do you know about the Grey Wardens?"

"Same as everyone else, I suppose," Zevran said with a shrug and a smile. "Defenders against the darkspawn, uncommonly brave, dangerously skilled, and so forth."

The Warden nodded, as if he expected the answer. "Did you know that we can sense the darkspawn?"

"…you could?"

The Warden smiled. "Didn't you notice?"

Zevran blinked. Frowned, thought hard. Come to think of it, there were times the Warden and Alistair would seem to tense long before they saw or heard any hint of darkspawn. They would start signalling the rest of them, getting them to ready their weapons. And soon after that they'd inevitable come across a stray darkspawn party.

While he had considered such ability to predict the darkspawns' whereabouts somewhat unusual, Zevran had assumed it was due to their experiences as Grey Wardens…which, he realized, could not be the case. Alistair had told him that they were only junior members, both of them only Grey Wardens for not more than a year; not long enough to gain any significant battlefield experience.

 _Which begs the question…_  "How is it, then, that you can sense the darkspawn?"

"That's a secret." The Warden chuckled softly. "One I cannot tell anyone outside the Order. But let it suffice to say that whatever we have that allows us to sense the darkspawn, also gives us nightmares. We dream of the darkspawn, of their corruption." A dark shadow—a bad memory—flickered behind the Warden's gaze. "And this being a Blight, we also dream of the archdemon."

"The archde—" Zevran bit his tongue, shook his head. "Wait, so you know  _where_  this archdemon is?"

"Oh, no…" The Warden laughed at that. "If only it were that easy, but alas, it isn't so. What we dream about is the…err, group mind of the darkspawn, directed by the archdemon…" A shudder went through the Warden's large frame. "It's…like looking into the heart of the Black City, if that was possible. At the hatred and the darkness and lust for blood…" The Warden shuddered again, and he sucked in a breath, let it out in a sigh. "It's…unpleasant." He smiled, a smile that did not reach the haunted eyes. "Hence the soldier's bane."

"…I see." Zevran studied the Warden. A part of him was clamouring to question the Warden further, but the sensible part was firmly holding that curiosity back, cautioning that the answers to such questions may not be what Zevran would want to know—and it would only force the Warden to relive unpleasant memories, a cruel thing to do when the human already had so many burdens forced upon him. And the Warden was already looking worn-out.

Zevran nodded, accepting the Warden's words. "I understand now. Thank you."

The Warden raised a brow, and his lips curved. "What, no scolding? No threatening me at dagger-point again?"

Zevran laughed at the cheeky tone in the Warden's words. "Perhaps some other time, my dear." He reached out, lightly tapped the Warden on the nose with the tip of a gloved finger. "But I'm warning you, don't take more poison. I'll forgive you for this, but should I catch you doing so again, I would not hesitate to gut you." His smile sharpened. "And I'd tell the others before I do, so they have a chance to get their hands on you first."

The Warden glared at Zevran, who remained unmoved—he knew that he'd won the argument with  _that_  point about telling the others, and the Warden knew it as well as he did. "Yes, yes, go ahead and bully me, heartless bastard," the Warden finally muttered. He flopped down, his arms reaching up to cross behind his head. "I won't forget this, you know."

"Neither will I. Something you should bear in mind." Smirking, Zevran shifted to stand up.

Only to have a pair of fingers hook into his belt and pull him, rather firmly, back down.

Zevran looked down at the fingers, and then at the Warden…noted the amused expression on the Warden's face. "…What is it?"

The Warden flashed a grin. "Considering that you've deprived me of a means to go to sleep, I want a replacement."

Zevran stared at the Warden, wondered what the human was thinking of this time. Smirked. "Oh? What sort of replacement do you have in mind?"

"A bedtime story."

The prompt reply—and the impish glint in the Waden's eyes—made Zevran raise his brows. "…I see." He chuckled. "Well, since you asked for it…" He planted one hand beside the Warden's head, bracing his weight on it, and leaned down for a kiss—

A large hand clapped over his mouth, halting his progress, and the Warden was laughing.

"Not  _that_  kind of bedtime story," the Warden said, still chuckling.

Zevran, his mouth still pressed against a hard palm, raised a brow in question.

Grinning, the Warden dropped his hand, letting it return to pillow his head. "While that particular kind of 'bedtime story' would likely be a lot of fun, I want an  _actual_  bedtime story, made of words and sentences."

"…I beg your pardon?"

Zevran's incredulous tone—and, he was sure, the stunned expression on his face—only made the Warden's grin grow broader and more wolf-like. "Or is something that simple a little bit too much for your ability?"

The little verbal jab pricked at his pride—and his amusement. Laughing, Zevran straightened back into a sitting position, looking down at the Warden. "You are a strange, strange man," he said.

"Thank you," was the impertinent reply.

Mentally shaking his head, he simply raised his brows. "So what sort of story do you wish to hear, hm? Grand old legends of might and magic, or sweet tales of romance and heartbreak?" He smirked. "Or maybe a story about hot and steamy sex, just for fun?

"Oh, what wonderful variety," the Warden said mockingly. "But I find myself wanting to hear something more…mundane." His eyes narrowed. His grin sharpened. "Tell me about your adventures."

"My adventures?" Zevran chuckled. "I'm hardly an old man just returned from across the ocean, am I?" He raised a brow. "Should I shake my fist at nearby children while I talk about the good old days?"

The Warden laughed softly. "You certainly  _talk_  like you've had adventures."

Zevran heard the underlying challenge in those words; saw it in the Warden's too-sharp gaze. "Falling down a flight of stairs is an adventure. Falling into someone's bed?" He smiled, letting his eyes grow sultry and hooded. "Also an adventure." He sobered, met the Warden's gaze. "I am assuming what you are looking for are professional anecdotes."

The Warden didn't say anything—the expectant grin was answer enough.

"Let's see…" Sighing, Zevran scratched his chin, pondering the lurid little tales he'd collected as a Crow, wondered which would suit…ah, he had it. "My second mission ever for the Crows was a bit intriguing. I was sent to kill a mage who had been meddling in politics."

The Warden arched a brow at that, interest gleaming in his eyes. "The Crows were willing to anger the Circle of the Magi?"

"Well, it was just the one mage…" He shrugged, smirked. "Not as simple a mission as a vagrant Grey Warden or two, perhaps," he remarked, making the Warden laugh. "As it turned out, the mage in question was quite a young delightful woman. Long, divine legs, as I recall. I caught her in a carriage on her way to escape to the provinces. After I killed her guard, she got down on her hands and knees and begged for her life…rather aptly, I might add. So I joined her in the carriage for the night and left the next morning."

"Mmm…" The Warden's voice was thoughtful. "And she didn't try to kill you?"

"Well, yes. Twice, actually."  _And rather clumsy attempts at that._ "Then she decided to try and use me, instead." He laughed softly at the fond memory. "That woman had actually convinced me to speak to the Crows on her behalf." Seeing the arch and slightly disbelieving look the Warden shot him, he simply grinned and shrugged. "What can I say? I was young and foolish at the time."  _And I quickly learned to be less foolish…until that one time…no, best not to think of it now._  "Then as I was kissing her good-bye to return to Antiva City, she slipped on the threshold and fell backwards out of the carriage." He remembered the loud  _crack_ , her shocked expression as the life in her eyes died at that sound. "Broke her neck. Shame, really. But at least it happened quickly."

The Warden looked a little shocked. "That's terrible!" he exclaimed.

Was it? Zevran had certainly seen worse. Done worse. But he did not fault the Warden for using a different set of standards—what would a pampered, highborn noble know of what he had gone through? "Then I found out that she had told the driver to take her to Genellan instead. She had planned to lose me in the provinces. I would have looked very foolish to the Crows."  _And would be harshly punished for that._  "As it was, my master was very impressed that I had done such a fine job of making it look like an accident. The Circle of Magi was unaware of foul play and everyone was happier all around."

The Warden smiled slightly, his eyes heavy-lidded. "These sorts of things happen to you often?"

Zevran laughed—both at the question, and at the sleepy rumble of the Warden's voice. "Like being spared by a benevolent mark who then helps me escape the Crows? Yes, it does seem to happen now and then, doesn't it?" he said with a smirk. "It was after that when I learned that one needn't let a pretty face go to your head. Professionalism was key. That's my moral of the day, you see."

The keen eyes had drifted shut—one of them cracked open to peer at Zevran. "A wise lesson to learn," the Warden murmured.

Zevran sighed, his smile fading. "And one that not everyone learns, I'm sad to say."  _Even me._  He sighed again, and then summoned a smile. "But that's enough tale-spinning from me, for the moment. Talking about the mage has made me a bit nostalgic, I'm afraid. Ah, the good old days."

The Warden made a quiet sound that would have been an amused chuckle, if it wasn't so drowsy. "You're not  _that_  old."

"And how would you know?" Zevran said archly. "I might very well be twice your age, and you couldn't tell, no?"

"Uppity elf," the Warden mumbled in retort. The human was clearly fighting a losing battle to sleep. "'S not like you're all aged and wrinkly or something…"

"I dearly hope not," Zevran muttered under his breath.

The soft chuckle told him that his words had not gone unheard—the Warden, he thought, really had a frightening sense of hearing. "'S 'kay," he said. "You're fun to be with…and I still like you..even if you are an uppity little bastard…" The voice trailed off—Zevran watched as the last of wakefulness faded from the Warden's face, and the human sank into sleep.

He stared at the human for a while longer, before he looked up at the roof of the tent. "Like me?" he mouthed, shaking his head. Clearly, the Warden had no idea what he was dealing with when it came to Zevran; he highly doubted someone like the Warden would actually 'like' someone like him.

Zevran's gaze dropped back down to the Warden's face. With the grim lines that usually hardened that face smoothed away by sleep, the Warden looked every bit his nineteen years. Handsome, full of vitality—even with the dark circles around the eyes and the too-pale complexion—strong, brave…and far, far too young to be doing what he had to do.

Without really thinking about it, he reached out and ran a hand, lightly, through the Warden's hair.

He snatched his hand back as the Warden mumbled something, stirring slightly, before drifting back into sleep, barely disturbed by the feather-light touch.

Zevran stared at the Warden, and then glared at his hand. Sighing, he reached up and ruffled his own hair.

Felt his gaze, inevitably, be drawn to the Warden again.

He stared, thought…hesitated. Then, carefully, reached out again and laid his hand on the Warden's head.

Waited, watched, but the other man did not stir. Encouraged by that, he let his fingers comb through the Warden's mane, much thicker than his own, his gloved hand running smoothly though the locks.

The Warden shifted again beneath his hand, and made a soft little sound—one of distress.

He studied the face, at the slight hint of a frown wrinkling the skin between the winged brows.

Already, the Warden was fretful, no doubt plagued with nightmares. But even now, there was still strength and determination in the lines of his face. His handsome, lively face.

"Ah, my dear Warden," he said softly. "What would you be doing now, if you had not joined the Grey Wardens? Perhaps you would be swanning about in glittering banquet halls, laughing and smiling, and not having to live the wretched life of a wanted fugitive, fighting darkspawn and facing nightmares…"

_And perhaps he might have died, in his castle, if Loghain or Howe had seen him as a threat to their power. Perhaps this life might be harsh—but better this life than to be killed, a life with so many years left lost to a nobleman's greed._

_And if he had died then, you would not have met him, no?_

Zevran mentally snarled at the little voice murmuring at the back of his head, and it fell silent.

He looked down at the Warden…suddenly imagined that boyish face pale with death, splattered with blood.

He considered what the voice had said.

After a long moment, he sighed.

Finally decided that, perhaps, it was better that things had ended up this way after all.

_~to be continued~_


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'ed, all mistakes are my own.

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 23_

* * *

Zevran wasn't sure when he fell asleep—one moment he'd been patting the Warden's head, the next he was opening his eyes to a quiet tent lit only by the faint glow of the campfire shining through its walls, still dressed in his armor, the weight of a heavy arm draped over his waist.

He stared for a moment at the pale-skinned throat before him, and then jerked his gaze upward.

Found himself looking up at a pair of keen eyes that seemed to gleam brightly in the dimness of the tent.

Propped on one elbow, the Warden was looking down at him, the regard shrewd, assessing, and fully awake.

"How are you feeling?" the Warden asked, his voice gravelly.

Zevran smiled at the question. "I think that it should have been  _I_  asking  _you_  that question, no?" he quipped as he struggled to sit up, wincing at the slight stiffness of his body. "After all, I wasn't the one afflicted by nightmares and several weeks' worth of exhaustion." He arched a brow at the Warden. "So, how are  _you_  feeling?"

A tiny smile curved the Warden's lips as he peeked up at Zevran through a fringe of thick lashes. "…rested." He closed his eyes and stretched, raising his arms over his head and arching his back, the simple movement conjuring the image of a powerful predator preparing for a night's hunt. The tunic stretched over the Warden's torso—Zevran's eyes followed the outlined body appreciatively, marvelling at the strong muscles he could see bunching and releasing beneath the wool.

"Stop staring," the Warden murmured as he stopped stretching, laughter in his voice.

Grinning, Zevran raised his gaze to the Warden's face. "Why? Surely you know that you have a body worthy of being stared at."

"Flatterer." Chuckling, the Warden turned and propped himself up on an elbow again, regarding Zevran with laughing eyes.

Happy, lively eyes, with no shadows in them.

Something in Zevran relaxed with a sigh.

Chuckling, Zevran slid off the pelts, stretching as he stood up. "Well, I'm glad that you're all right," he said. "I'll leave you to rest then—"

"I think I've rested enough." Wearing his wolf's grin, the Warden reached out, grabbed Zevran about the wrist.

Zevran stifled a gasp as he was pulled down onto the pelts, a strong hand already seizing about his upper arm and pulling him towards the Warden. 

Hungry lips closed on his. Thanks to the choked-back gasp, Zevran's lips were already parted; it was easy for the Warden to surge in, lay claim, tongue reaching into Zevran's mouth and exploring.

It was more than three weeks since they'd last tangled like this, and Zevran had been eaten by worry during those weeks. His mind had forgotten how long it was since their last kiss, but his body had definitely  _not_  forgotten, not one bit, and with that one kiss, his unwittingly-caged lust surged. It was only when he realized that his hands had tangled in the Warden's hair that he  _also_  realized he was kissing back, just as hungry, just as needy.

And then the Warden's tongue stroked along his, a blatant invitation to play, and he stopped thinking.

Let instinctual desire rear its head and met the Warden's, matching it. Hands anchored in the Warden's hair, Zevran clung to the kiss, to the other man as his wits spun, his senses dancing into a firestorm of pleasure and need.

He felt the Warden's hands on the buckles of his armor—flicking them loose, stripping the leather off piece by piece, clumsy in their hurry to take them off. He wrenched away from the kiss, rising to his knees over the Warden, and he hurriedly, efficiently—impatiently—stripped off his own armor. Gloves, pauldrons, gorget, cuirass, belt, skirt—he tossed them to the ground, heedless of where and how they'd landed, until finally,  _finally_ , he was naked except for his loincloth and boots.

The Warden had been watching—waiting—while he'd stripped; the moment he had taken off the last piece of armor, strong hands locked about his waist.

Caressed. Assessed, and then explored, skating up his sides and up to his chest, then closed, unerringly, about his nipples. Zevran felt his spine arch, heard a distant moan—realized it came from him.

Was surprised to hear it. He'd never been particularly sensitive in that manner, was in fact rather indifferent to nipple play, but the Warden's touch—

Then those fingers—wicked, wicked fingers—rolled, pinched, and Zevran moaned again. His hands had closed about the Warden's wrists, gripping, tightening, holding on…

One of the Warden's hands dropped away, and he felt the heavy body between his knees shift, surge up. Propping up on one arm, the Warden leaned up and in, and his mouth closed about the nipple he'd just released.

Zevran bit back a shout of surprise—not well enough, if the Warden's dark chuckle was anything to go by—and then the mouth on his nipple kissed, than licked, laved, before drawing the hardened bud and suckled, hard.

He gasped, arched helplessly, his hands rising to tangle in the Warden's hair, simultaneously demanding and holding on. Head back, eyes closed, he gave himself up to the sensations flooding and cascading through him, lancing sharp, molten hot, held them—held the Warden—to his body, took all that the other man was giving him…then wordlessly, shamelessly, through clutching hands and gasping moans begged for more.

The Warden's lips on his skin, the hot, wet caress of that devouring mouth on his chest, the subtle tug by fingers and lips on his nipples sent little jolts of sparking heat through him, and they spread out, pooled low in his belly, swelled in his groin into an insistent ache.

Until he couldn't take the teasing—he gripped, pulled on the Warden's hair, forced the human to pull back and look up at him.

Even in the dark, the Warden's eyes shone, heat burning in their depths. And that face…hard, harsh, lust and desire further honing the edges of already sharp angles and planes, the look in those eyes one of predatory hunger.

Dangerous. Beautiful.

A heartbeat passed, and then Zevran snarled, gripped the Warden's shoulders between his hands, bent his head down and found the other man's mouth with his own.

Kissed the Warden ravenously, heard the other man moan softly, and felt the mouth beneath his kiss back, hot, eager, and he dived into it in greedy desperation.

The Warden's response—uninhibited, unrestrained, blatantly inviting—left him dizzy.

A dizziness no amount of ragged breathing while kissing the Warden could ease. A dizziness that only weakened his hold over the primitive impulse to  _take-seize-plunder_.

Lifting his head, he dragged in a breath, and then pushed the Warden back, down, onto the bed—deliberately ignoring the dissatisfied snarl from the Warden's kiss-swollen lips—and then reached down, gripped the hem of the Warden's tunic and pulled it up.

The Warden, thank the Maker, immediately realized where this was going. The other man sat up slightly, helped Zevran shed his tunic, and then his breeches, lifting his hips to wiggle out of them, toed off (and then kicked off) his boots, and finally the Warden was fully naked, the long hard body bared to Zevran's eyes.

And what a marvelous sight it was, a naked Warden against the furs…although it was dark, there was just enough light to see the long muscles, the supple, powerful planes, the arrogantly masculine sculpture of strong muscle and heavy bone and hot taut skin, framed by the dark grey shades of wolf fur...

Well, Zevran's mouth didn't  _quite_  water, but his throat certainly went dry.

Especially when the Warden was staring back with those keen eyes, dark with lust and glittering beneath the heavy lids, with his lips parted in a purely carnivorous grin.

He gave a no-less-predatory grin back, and then he leaned forward, closed the distance, closed his lips over the Warden's.

Delighted in the greedy, hungry response as he swept his tongue into that willingly-parted mouth and tasted its depths. He met the Warden, and gave all the other man so blatantly wanted, took all that was so brazenly offered in exchange.

Lips melded, tongues dueled—and heat flared, poured, raced beneath their skins.

Until they were both burning with desperate longing.

Part of his mind rather steadfastly reminded him that the Warden had not done this with another man, and  _because_  of that they should take things  _slow_.

But as much as he knew he  _should_ …

He realized…mentally swore.

It wasn't wise, wasn't  _safe_ , but he  _couldn't_  slow down—they'd both unwittingly raced through this faster than the wind could blow…and had both fallen down straight into blind lust.

He wasn't in control, and neither was the Warden.

But that lack of control on both sides, Zevran was sure, couldn't cool the Warden's ardour; the human was like a living flame beneath him, burning for him…hard hands had risen to clasp his head between callused palms, and the Warden kissed him as if he was the last person alive in the world and now was the only chance to experience any kind of pleasure between them.

Sexual hunger and passions were his speciality—and the most dangerous weapons that he had ever used in his trade—but this…this hungry, devouring  _need_  was beyond even his experience or understanding. They both wanted each other, he knew that; but he had not expected  _this_ , to be dragged into pure elemental  _need_ , leaving him gasping, wits awhirl and pulse throbbing…only from a few kisses?

Then the Warden angled his head, pressed the kiss deeper, and Zevran shuddered.

Never, not ever before, had anyone, man or woman, met him like this. Never had they challenged,  _taunted_  him like this. Any thought of sophisticated play—of hours spent introducing the Warden to all the techniques he'd picked up over the years—were scorched, burnt to ashes and scattered into nothing.

And he found that he didn't care. Not for now, at least.

 _Later._  Now he had more urgent things to think about, to do.

Like playing with the delectable body that had been bared, offered to him—he spread his voracious hands over the Warden's chest, over the burning skin, and drank in that pulsing heat.

Traced the taut muscles, fingertips curling, sinking in.

Mentally sighed with satisfaction, felt giddy delight surge as through their kiss he heard the Warden's heartfelt groan, sensed the other man's pleasure. He pandered, indulged them both, and let the sensations pour through him and the Warden.

His fingers found the Warden's nipples, rubbed, rolled, pinched, and he laughed softly as the Warden cried out and arched into his hands. He broke away from the kiss, traced his mouth over the angular jaw—felt the stubble that had started to grow roughly scrape against his swollen, parted lips—then dipped beneath to follow the long line of the Warden's throat, skate into the hollow between the collarbones, feeling the throbbing pulse beneath heated skin, then drifted lower still.

Over the broad expense of a pectoral muscle, to just lightly, so very lightly brush over a hardened nub.

Then he traced the path again, with a wet tongue, and when he reached the end heard the Warden's shocked gasp, felt fingers spearing through his hair, holding him to the heavy body that was arching towards his mouth.

And Zevran accepted the wanton invitation, caressed the Warden's chest with lips and tongue, from beneath his lashes watched the other man's face, watched dark passion swirl and glaze over the keen eyes and draw their lids down, watch desire slowly harden and tighten those harsh features, watched the delicate flush that coloured the light skin.

Zevran feasted, let his senses greedily drink their fill, let his eyes see, his hands possess, his mouth and tongue claim, his slow ministrations running counter to the fiery compulsion to devour, to possess. Finally, giving in to the tug of the fingers in his hair, he rasped his tongue over the Warden's nipple, dampening it, then drew it into his mouth.

Sucked, lightly at first, and then, gripping the nub between his teeth, pulled at it more strongly. Heard the Warden's breathing fracture; with a strangled, groaning cry the other man arched up, fingers tightening on his skull hard enough to sting. He released the tortured flesh, caught a glimpse of the sharp eyes that had been watching him, gleaming beneath heavy lashes, and took in the parted lips, the harried breathing, the rise and fall of that broad, heavily muscled chest.

He blew lightly over the saliva-dampened skin, heard the Warden sigh.

His lips curved as he let his mouth drop hot, open-mouthed kisses along the bottom edge of the Warden's chest, and then downwards, over the corrugated muscles of the tight belly.

Felt the body beneath him go very still, heard a harsh intake of breath. Rolling his eyes up, he saw the Warden looking down at him, the harsh planes etched with blatant desire, the eyes wide with surprise and growing anticipation.

He grinned as he straightened up slightly, his gaze dropping down to alight on the Warden's erection, and he briefly marvelled at the heavy girth of it.

He was aware of the Warden shifting, the movement both unsure and encouraging…

He shifted backwards, closed one hand about the base of engorged flesh. Simultaneously bent his head down, and set his mouth to the hot, baby-soft skin.

The Warden jerked; Zevran heard the other man's breathing catch.

Gently, teasingly, he traced the plump head with his lips, and then licked, around, down the long shaft…watched the Warden's face, watched the jaw lock and clench tight, watch the eyes that burned into his with blazing hunger.

He smiled. Opened his lips and took the Warden in.

Heard the other man utter a strangled sound—felt the fingers that were still tangled in his hair tighten, grip, hold on.

Zevran laughed softly, letting it rumble over the flesh that filled his mouth, and heard the Warden make another choked noise, felt the erection jump. He swirled his tongue, over, around, sucking lightly as he drew his head back until only the very tip of the Warden's cock remained in his mouth, and then slowly sank his head back down again along the length, his throat loosening with practised ease, until he felt that blunt tip hit the back of his mouth and slide further down, and his nose brushed against the thick curls at the Warden's groin.

Felt a fierce triumph as the Warden made a sound he could only describe as a desperate sob.

Zevran gripped one hand about a lean-muscled thigh, another hand lightly cupping the heavy sac that bumped against his chin, wrapped his tongue tightly against the underside of the Warden's cock, and then he let himself get lost in the sensations.

Of the throbbing organ in his mouth, of the flexing muscle beneath his hand, the weight of the glands in his fingers, the light rocking of the slim hips up towards his mouth, the strong hands that had unknotted from his hair and were now spread out over his head and petting it lightly, almost gentle in their touch.

After a long moment, Zevran glanced up. The Warden's eyes were closed, and he was breathing deeply through a half-open mouth—breaths that grew steadily shorter as Zevran kept up with his ministrations—the head rolling bonelessly side to side on the furs. The long-limbed body was trembling, quivering—taut as a bow, and growing tighter, more fraught with each pull of Zevran's mouth. The Warden wasn't making much noise now—just little moans and gasps that were, nevertheless, much more erotic to Zevran's ears than outright screams.

Zevran watched all of this, fixed the images in his mind, and savored the beauty of it all, even as he increased the bobbing tempo of his head. He let go of the Warden's leg and reached down, loosening his loincloth and closing his hand around his swollen cock, letting out a relieved sigh at the welcome pressure as he stroked, lightly, pleasuring himself even as he pleasured the Warden.

He felt the cock in his mouth swelling that last bit, the thigh muscles bracketing his shoulders turning into steel bands and the balls in his hand tightening as the Warden's breaths hitched. Zevran fixed his gaze on the Warden's face, letting go of the other man's balls and curling that hand around the base, gripping. At the same time he pulled back halfway and sucked  _hard_ , his cheeks hollowing, and then watched the Warden's entire frame tense, watched the Warden's head snap back against the pelts as the other man came into his mouth with a single, strangled cry.

Zevran took all of it, his mouth unfaltering even as the Warden clutched at his head, each and every pull of his mouth and hand eking out another spasm even as the previous ones started to stop—sucking the Warden to dry and shuddering before Zevran decided to stop, coming to rest with his lips against the edge of his hand, still lightly holding the softening member.

He watched as, after the peak had passed, the Warden went limp, his body rapidly melting into the furs, and he made a single  _ugh_  sound as his opened, glazed eyes stared unseeingly at a point above Zevran's head.

Smirking, he relinquished his hold on the Warden, sucking the other man clean with a last, slow pull of his mouth that made a muscle in the Warden's belly twitch. He straightened until he was kneeling on his knees again, just astraddle one of the Warden's legs, at the same time swiping the mess that had spilt past his lips with a thumb and then licking the digit clean.

The hand that had been playing, somewhat idly, with his rigid erection firmed, grasped more tightly, and he sighed out a breath, closing his eyes as he let his fingers glide in familiar strokes, his hips pumping, working his erection in a matching rhythm to his hand. His lungs tightened as he felt the tension low in his belly coil, tighten, feeling himself edge closer to that peak of pleasure—

A warm hand closed about his wrist, halting the movements of his hand.

His eyes flew open—and found themselves staring into the Warden's eyes, languid with recently acquired satisfaction, but no less keen.

In the midst of Zevran's self-pleasuring, the Warden had shifted, until he was on his knees before Zevran. He stared up at the man looming over him, wondering what—

The Warden's free hand pressed against his hip, pushing him back and down, until he sat on his haunches. The hand that had grabbed his wrist pulled, forcing him to release his erection as he sat back. He bit back the instinctual protest, his attention caught by the intent look in the Warden's eyes as they dropped to his groin. The expression on that face…lustful, intrigued, and undeniably possessive…

What was his Warden thinking?

Before he could even think about it, the Warden bent toward him.

Thick hair swept past his belly, over his groin—before he could react, Zevran felt a hot breath caress his aching flesh, and then the Warden licked.

Long.

Lingeringly.

And he was lost.

His hands rose, speared through the Warden's hair, as the other man shifted and settled to the task, leaning on his thighs, one hand caressing, fondling, gliding up and down as a wicked tongue licked, laved, winding him tighter and tighter…and the Warden drew back, tongue darting out to swipe across his lower lip—Zevran found himself riveted by the sheen of saliva—as the human lifted his head briefly, considered…

Then bent his head again, and took Zevran into his mouth.

" _Warden!_ "

Zevran's exclamation came out as a fractured scream. His fingers spasmed on the Warden's skull when the human sucked, gently—hesitantly—at first, then more strongly, and then the tongue curled…Zevran closed his eyes, and clung for dear life to his spinning senses as the Warden grew bolder and started to torment him, with slow sucks and rasping tongue and just the lightest scrape of teeth.

He'd been with courtesans trained in their particular art; the Warden was a mere novice at this, his touch crude compared to them. But what the Warden lacked in polished technique he more than made up with greedy enthusiasm, and Zevran found that his control being shredded mercilessly into tatters as the Warden tested, tried, improvised, doing as he pleased…

The Warden eased back, releasing, and Zevran wondered if the human had enough—

"Tell me how to please you."

The quiet growl made him open his eyes, look down.

The Warden had glanced up at him, the keen eyes brilliant, his mouth curved in a teasing, taunting smile that had flushed a suggestive red, his hand still playing, exploring.

The smile widened into that wolfish grin. "Tell me what makes you scream…Zevran."

The Warden's voice, deep and velvet-smooth, grew rougher as he spoke: Zevran's name came out as a growling purr, even as the wicked lips brushed skin so sensitive Zevran felt the slide of skin against skin like a burn.

Looking into the Warden's eyes, at the playful light dancing in them, all Zevran could think was: What makes me scream? Aren't you doing well enough at that?

But then the Warden licked again, breaking the spell, and Zevran's hands tightened on the Warden's skull and pressed the human back into servicing him—to which the Warden eagerly devoted himself to, as Zevran instructed, in a voice hoarse with passion, on what he liked.

What made him arch his back and mutter curses interlaced with praises, what made him squeeze his eyes shut and moan helplessly, what made him sob and scream and beg for more.

He did all of that as the Warden listened, learned, and followed, and when Zevran's orgasm hit he cried out at the suddenness of it, and his mind shattered, his thoughts blanking as he reached the pinnacle of bliss.

The sound of the Warden choking abruptly yanked him back down with a crash.

His eyes opened, saw the Warden straightening, the other man turning his head away and pressing the back of his hand to his mouth as he coughed, his eyes closed and tears clinging wetly to the thick fringe of his lashes.

Zevran cursed, his lips thinning as he gripped the Warden's shoulder. "Are you all right?"

"…yeah," the Warden muttered after a moment. He blinked, swallowed, swallowed again. Frowned as he looked at Zevran. "That was quick." The eyes widened, horror flashing in their depths. "I mean, I'm not implying that you've no stamina or something, because you're  _great_ , I just suck at sucking—Andraste's breath, that sounded better in my head—I've never done this before and I was afraid that I did something wrong…"

Zevran's eyebrow had rose as the Warden had started babbling—after a while, the corners of his lips had rose as well.

"Warden," he murmured, drawing the other man's attention and halting the flow of words.

The Warden gave him a hesitant, unsure look—an odd lost-little-boy look that, even jaded as he was, melted a little corner of Zevran's heart, just a bit.

Smiling, he leaned forward, gently pressed his lips to the Warden's, his tongue darting out to catch the stray drop of semen that clung to the corner of the Warden's mouth. "It was good," he whispered, their lips still pressed against each other. He drew back, smirked. "You were good."

"Oh." The Warden blinked, and then smiled back, even as that charming flush stole across his face. "Uhm, thanks?"

"Isn't it supposed to be the other way around?" Zevran said with a chuckle. "I think that I should be the one thanking you."

"You're welcome," came the prompt reply, and Zevran laughed at the impish gleam in the Warden's eyes. The laugh broke off when the Warden leaned down and kissed him.

Softly, gently. Almost tenderly.

It made Zevran's heartbeat do a stuttering skip.

And then the Warden pulled back, at the same time closing a hand around Zevran 's wrist and tugging the elf down to the pelts, until they were both lying down again, the thick woolen blanket pulled over them, and he was snuggled bonelessly in the warm circle of the Warden's arms.

He felt pleasure sink to his bones, unexpectedly deep and satisfying.

Tilting his head up, he looked into the Warden's face. "Seriously, though, are you all right with—?"

"Zevran," the Warden rumbled, his eyes already closed. "Stop asking. I said I'm all right—I was just surprised." He lifted his head slightly; one eye cracked open to peer at Zevran. "I'll be better prepared the next time."

The statement—so full of confident arrogance—and the equally haughty smile that went with it made Zevran chuckle, both in amusement and relief. "I'll make sure you hold on to that," he said.

The Warden grinned in reply, his eye closing as his head settled back into the furs. "Go to sleep."

"Yes, ser," Zevran murmured, his tone mocking. But he sighed, closing his eyes, and followed that order, contented to his toes, and surrendered to his dreams.

_~to be continued~_


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'ed, all mistakes are my own.

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 24_

* * *

It was almost dawn when Zevran finally stirred from sleep, finding himself once again cradled in strong arms. Blinking, he raised his head, noted that as before, the Warden had curved in and over him, body to body, arms around him and one leg thrown over both of his, face buried in that junction between shoulder and neck.

A true snuggler, his Warden. Zevran didn't know what to think of that. He wasn't used to having someone hang onto him like that, and he wasn't sure if he liked it or not. On one hand, it was pretty sexy, and it kept him warm and cozy through the harsh Ferelden cold.

On the other, should something untoward happen, and he had to move fast to get to his blades, the Warden would be a dead weight.

He frowned as he thought about that. Perhaps he should practice breaking loose, rolling out and reaching for the nearest weapon…

…or he could just leave it be. It wasn't as if this was supposed to be permanent.

It was simply convenience, a pleasant diversion. He wouldn't stay in the Warden's bed forever, he was sure of that.

Snorting at his foolish thoughts, Zevran wiggled out from the Warden's embrace—a surprisingly easy task, and the Warden did not awake, although he had made a grumbling sound as Zevran slipped out from beneath his arms.

Picking his way around through the dark, Zevran gathered the pieces of his armour and put them on. As he tightened his chest harness, he glanced back at the lump of softly-snoring man sprawled out on the furs.

His Warden was, from all appearances, unlikely to wake any-time soon, undoubtedly exhausted by their pleasant exertions from earlier.

Smirking, Zevran soft-footedly left the tent, stretching once he stepped past the tent flap.

The early hour meant that most of the Warden's party had not awakened yet. He did spot Leliana, sitting by the fire and keeping watch, along with…Alistair?

Zevran raised an eyebrow. Leliana appeared to be speaking with the blond-haired Warden, who was waving his hands about agitatedly. Curious, he kept to the shadows and drifted closer to the fire…

"…all that  _noise!_  How could I possibly sleep through those?"

"By closing your eyes and going to sleep, instead of thinking about it, maybe?" Leliana replied to Alistair's question, sounding amused. "You shouldn't be so surprised. Surely you already knew that those two are already—"

"I know that; we both barged in on them, remember?" Alistair said tartly.

 _Oh-ho, and what is this?_  Zevran watched and listened, still hidden in the shadows, as Leliana giggled and said: "They haven't even started at that point, I'm thinking."

"But how does it even  _work?_ " Alistair's expression was equal parts bewilderment, shock, and horror. "I mean, they are  _both_  men! Is it even  _possible_  to…do things?"

"Oh, it's quite possible," Leliana said assuredly. She gave Alistair a teasing smile. "After all, since they are both men, they'd know how to pleasure each other much better than a woman would, no?"

"Well…" Alistair blushed furiously. "Yes, all right, you do have a point…"

Leliana raised an eyebrow. "So why should they not find pleasure with each other? If they enjoy each other's company, it is not in our place to comment about it, yes?"

"That's not what I meant." His brow furrowed in a confused frown. "But if they're both men, where do they put their…" His voice trailed off, and his eyes widened. "Wait…" The eyes turned as round as saucers. "Maker's breath, don't tell me they actually—"

"Is something wrong, Alistair?" Leliana asked innocently. Zevran bit his lip and stifled the laugh that threatened to bubble up—both at Leliana's far-from-innocent smile, and Alistair's increasingly horrified expression.

"B-b-but…" Alistair's face had gone an interesting shade of pink-mottled white—he looked like he was on the verge of apoplexy. "That's an  _exit-only_  place, isn't it?"

Zevran brought his gloved fist up to his mouth and bit into the knuckles. His eyes were starting to tear up from the strain of  _not-laughing_.

Leliana—Maker bless her roguish heart—looked like she was enjoying this conversation far too much. Still smiling serenely, she spoke, in a calm voice, "It's not unheard of, you know…especially with men of the Warden and Zevran's levels of experience with, erm, playing with others."

Alistair's colour was distinctly green now. "Wouldn't that be…totally uncomfortable?"

Leliana smiled slyly. "Maybe, if the recipient of that sort of attention isn't used to it. But it's quite nice, really, if done well."

Alistair blinked. "What?" His eyes widened into circles again. "You're serious?"

"Quite serious, yes." She nodded slowly. "It's not bad, really. I've done it before."

Alistair's "oh" was a tiny little sound. "…What was it like?" He turned beet-red. "I mean, I didn't mean to pry, I'm just—"

"Curious, yes?" Leliana grinned, and her eyes misted over dreamily. "The man I was with was most gentle and tender about it—there isn't any pain, except for a little sting at first." She giggled. "It's very intense."

Alistair's eyes were still too-wide, but they held less horror and more fascination now. "Really?"

"Mm-hmm…I could give you pointers, if you like." She arched a brow. "How to stretch the muscle, and what kind of oils you can—"

Alistair laughed—a little hysterically—as he quickly raised his hands to ward off Leliana's words (and judging from the brilliant shade of red that had coloured his face, the mental images associated with those words). "I think that I can live without that information for now, thank you," he said too-quickly.

"Are you really sure about that?" Leliana said, giggling again. "You're bound to meet someone eventually, yes? It's better if you learn about some of these things so you could do things properly—"

Zevran gave up on holding back his mirth. Laughing, he slipped out of the shadows and made himself known. "My dear Leliana, I think that Alistair isn't  _quite_  ready for that level of intimate skill," he said with a chuckle. "Let's put off the lesson until he's a little less wet behind the ears."

Both of them looked up—Leliana with surprised amusement, Alistair with equal parts gratefulness and annoyance.

"Hello, Zevran," Leliana greeted cheerily, at the same time Alistair plaintively said, "Do you rogue types always sneak up on people like that?"

"Greetings, my dear," Zevran said, deciding to answer the former first, before giving the latter an arch smile. "And Alistair, I wasn't even trying very hard at sneaking. What happens if a pack of darkspawn decide to sneak up on you?"

"Hel-lo, Grey Warden here. Darkspawn-sensing comes with the Grey Wardening."

 _Nightmares too, or so your fellow Warden tells me_. Biting back that retort, Zevran merely laughed and shrugged. "Not all our enemies are made of darkspawn."

"Only most of them," Leliana quipped, before her face sobered. "Is the Warden all right?"

"He is," Zevran said reassuringly, noting that Alistair's expression instantly turned worried. "I've helped him get some sleep."

He saw the slight tenseness that had gripped Alistair ease, but only slightly. Leliana relaxed, but her worry was not as…grim as Alistair's. She clearly did not know about the soldier's bane or the nightmares. "Oh, good. He was looking so unwell for the past few weeks…it's a good thing you've helped him."

"Probably drugged him," Alistair muttered. Leliana jabbed him in the side with an elbow. "Ow! I'm just saying," he protested. "The elf's a bloody assassin, for Maker's mercy."

"And how is drugging the Warden supposed to help things?" Zevran scoffed. "I have rather more…tactile means of persuading the Warden to rest." He smirked. "I'm sure you've heard the results of that persuasion, considering what you've been complaining to Leliana earlier."

"How'd you—oh, you were  _eavesdropping_."Alistair glared at Zevran. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough to know that the noise had disturbed your sleep." Zevran raised a brow. "Maybe you should try Leliana's suggestion and not think about it too much, no?"

"And maybe  _you_  should try to be a little less vocal about it," Alistair retorted, his heated words at odds with the embarrassed blush on his cheeks. "I mean,  _really_ , must you make all that noise?"

Zevran  _tried._  He really did. But even though he just knew that the Warden would strangle him if he found out about what Zevran was about to do, the elf simply  _couldn't_  resist goading more of those adorably-embarrassed reactions out of Alistair. "I doubt I could keep my mouth shut," he said with a smirk, "the Warden's skills in this arena are simply far too ridiculously awesome." He raised a challenging eyebrow at Alistair. "Shall I ask the Warden to give you a demonstration? Initiate you into the art of loving?"

Alistair's reaction didn't disappoint—he flushed brilliantly, and if his eyes widened any further his eyeballs would fall out of their sockets. "What? No! That's—no, just  _no_ ," he spluttered.

"Really, Alistair? You are a fine young man, and deserve to learn from the best, no?" Zevran said, barely keeping the glee in his voice in check. "Don't worry—I'll be there with the Warden to help him. I'll promise, it'll be fun! My techniques won't disappoint, and I'll make sure that you feel nothing but pleasur—"

"I'm not listening!" Alistair exclaimed loudly, clapping his hands over his ears and squeezing his eyes shut. "La-la-la-la-la-la-la…"

"Oh, stop it, Zevran," Leliana cut in, laughing. "You're embarrassing Alistair, the poor dear."

Zevran grinned wickedly and bowed to her. "As the lovely lady wishes," he said half-mockingly.

His eyes met, locked with Leliana's. A moment passed…and both of them roared with laughter.

Alistair glared at them, and then, loudly announced, "I'm going back to sleep. Maker's breath, both of you are  _evil_  people." He was muttering the last as he stood up and—with his hands still over his ears—stalked towards the direction of his tent.

"Oh, Maker," Leliana gasped between giggles. "Alistair—he—did you see his  _face?_ "

"Hard not to, with the color that he took on," Zevran said with a chuckle as he sat down on the log beside Leliana. "I commend you on your marvellous efforts to unnerve him."

"It wasn't very difficult," she laughed. "After all, it was all the, ahem, noise you made that led to him questioning about such things. You really were quite loud, you know." Her eyebrows waggled up and down as she grinned slyly. "That good, was it?"

He smirked at the impish light in her eyes. "Someone's curious. Looking for gossip, my dear?"

"Of course!" She glared at him in mock offense. "I'm a woman; I reserve the right to gossip!"

He laughed at that, shaking his head in somewhat disbelieving amusement at her nerve. "Well, to answer your oh-so-direct question; yes, it was good." His mouth widened into a lecherous grin as he purred, "It was  _very_  good."

Leliana giggled. "Someday, you'll have to tell me all the details, yes?"

"Maybe." Chuckling, he shrugged. " _If_ the Warden consents—I doubt that our dear leader would appreciate being…mmm…discussed in this manner."

"Aw…" Leliana folded her arms and pouted. "You  _know_  he won't give any permission."

Deciding not to answer that, he only grinned and winked. "We'll see."

She snorted at that, and then glanced sideways at him. "It's cute, really."

"'Cute'?" he echoed. He raised his brows at her. "What do you mean by 'cute'?"

"Oh, you know what I mean." She smiled. "It's so sweet, the way the two of you act around each other. You're both so aware of each other, and that  _attraction_ …it's so strong, that it's practically visible, like little sparks of lightning between both of you." She sighed dreamily. "It's like those romantic stories where the dashing rogue meets the proud noble and both of them fall in l—"

"I think, my dear Leliana," he said with a laugh, interrupting her before she could finish that thought, "that romantic stories, like all romances, are rarely true."

"Bu—" she started, and he shook his head, cutting her off with that tiny little side-to-side turns of his head, his face growing solemn, almost grim.

"Listen," he said to her. "I am a son of a whore—I grew up amongst whores that sold the illusion of love, and what little I know of the Warden tells me that he might have made love many  _many_  times, but had never truly fallen in love—that kind of emotion is something that both of us would not understand, and would likely never feel. This…" He paused for a moment, struggling for the right word. "…this  _fling_  we have is nothing more than a simple way for both of us to take our pleasures while we could, while both of us are still willing. I demand very little, and I expect little else, and that is that." He smiled at her almost affectionately, to take the sting out of his harsh-spoken words. "I appreciate the sentiment, Leliana, but it's really not necessary."

She'd been staring at him, her eyes wide—with each word he spoke he saw the emotion swimming in the bright blue-grey depths change from shock to sadness to a pitying kind of understanding.

"…I see," she said, after a long moment of awkward silence. She frowned. "So…this 'fling', as you called it, is nothing more than a physical thing?"

"That is precisely it."

She studied him, the frown still creasing her brow, before she let out a sad sigh. "Very well. If you say so." She tilted her head sideways. "But don't you think you deserve to know a little of love, yes?"

He stared at her, disbelieving…but her expression was earnest, sincere—not a bard's mask, but a true expression of her thoughts.  _She was serious about this. She wants me to know what it would be like to fall in love, and to be loved…_

Realizing that, he felt his mouth part in a grin…and then he let out a wholly cynical laugh. "Love?" he repeated, smiling a little too sharply. "I know plenty about love, Leliana; the whores have taught me all the touches and positions designed to make your bed partner drown in pure ecstasy."

"That's not what I—" Leliana started, and then she bit her lower lip, cutting off the sentence. She glared at him, before she puffed out a breath and shook her head. "Oh, forget it. You don't believe a word I'm saying, and I doubt you're going to listen to me anyway."

He laughed again—truly amused this time—at her disgruntled expression. She really was quite sweet. A shame, really, that she was too much of an idealist. "Maybe dancing around with the nobles in Orlais had blinded you to some truths, my dear. What I've seen growing up tells me that the world is a harsh thing, and love has no place in it."

She snorted, and smiled tightly. "So you think. I choose to believe otherwise."

"And I respect your beliefs. I simply do not share them." Feeling the sudden itch to  _move_  that had wormed into his feet, he stood up from the log, and bowed to her. "If you'll excuse me, my dear, I believe I'll go scout a little." He straightened, turned sharply on his heel and strode off as quickly as dignity allowed.

"Just you wait, Mr Oh-So-Worldy-and-Wise," she called after him. "You'll find love sooner or later."

He smiled at that. "Then you'd best pray to the Maker for a miracle," he called back, without looking back at her, before he let himself disappear into the shadows of the forest.

_~to be continued~_


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'ed; all mistakes are my own.

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 25_  

* * *

Zevran went to crouch down by the suspicious blanket-covered lump, before he lifted the stiff fabric, looked beneath it…and very carefully dropped it back down, his face blank.

"Bad?" the Warden called out from the doorway.

"Let's just say that he did not die an easy death," Zevran murmured, grimacing as he noticed the flakes of dried blood stuck to his gloves.

He heard the Warden mutter a few choice oaths as the human stepped through the doorway and went to stand beside Zevran, staring down at the blanket-covered corpse. "Poor Weylon," the Warden finally said. "Died protecting his master's research."

Poor Weylon indeed. Zevran had seen some harsh deaths (Maker knows he caused more than his fair share of them), but what the cultists did to this boy…it simply made Zevran decide that the world is better off without their existence.

"So…we have a dead body, and one still-missing Brother." The Warden looked around, frowning. "And no idea where to find said missing Brother."

"Nothing is easy," Zevran murmured, his eyes casting about the room as well. "…well, except for certain types of people, and even they have their own price."

"…that's an awful joke."

"I know," Zevran said gaily. "Not quite as bad as some of the things Alistair says, but I do try my best."

"I heard that," Alistair's voice echoed from beyond the doorway. The blond Warden's head poked into the room, and after a brief glare at Zevran, he glanced up and shook his head at the Warden. "Found a lot of books in the study. A lot of things on dragon cults and the like, but nothing that could help us find Brother Genitivi."

"Blast and damnation. I was afraid of this," the Warden muttered. "Of course the cultists wouldn't leave any obvious trails to themselves…What about Wynne? Has she found anything?"

"Poking through the books right now. We might find some clues to the cult's whereabouts—a long shot, but better than nothing."

"So why are you over here and not over there?" the Warden asked pointedly.

Alistair shrugged. "She can read a lot faster than I can," he said by way of explanation.

"Small print too difficult for you?" Zevran murmured softly, not loud enough for Alistair to hear.

A swift kick not-so-gently slammed into his side, making him yelp. The Warden did not even glance down at him—although judging from the quirked lips, the human found his little remark amusing, warning kick notwithstanding. "What about that imposter's body?" the Warden asked Alistair. "Is he carrying a map or anything of that sort?"

"Not a single useful thing—I mean, Genitivi-hunting wise, that is. Some coins and a few poultices but that's about it, really."

"I see." The Warden let out a rueful sigh. "I suppose it was too much to hope for. Oh well." He shrugged. "Zevran and I will search this room. You go help Wynne."

"Right." Alistair nodded. "Good luck with the searching." With that, the blond ducked out of the doorway and vanished from view.

The Warden sighed and, frowning, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Maker's breath," he muttered. "Why are things always so damned  _complicated?_ "

"Because if they aren't, then we wouldn't be needed to stop the Blight, yes?" Zevran quipped lightly...even as he watched the Warden closely.

"Oh, sure, because Ferelden needs heroes and all that." The Warden laughed slightly. "And to think I once yearned for adventure."

Zevran felt himself smiling at the Warden's woeful tone. "Life doesn't always go according to plan." The smile faded into a frown as the Warden continued to hold the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb. "Are you all right?" he asked, keeping his voice low.

"Just a bit of a headache," the Warden murmured, equally quiet, his eyes squeezing tightly.

 _From the look on your face, I'd say it's more than 'a bit'._ Zevran bit back the caustic reply. It was worrying, but not as bad as, say, being close to dying from sleep deprivation; in fact, he thought that it was very likely the headache was from the lack of proper sleep itself.

He mentally sighed. It has been a week since that little confrontation about the soldier's bane, and as far as Zevran knew, the Warden had (wisely) chosen to stop taking that…which for some inexplicable reason his body took as a hint to sleep even more deeply. The Warden often ended up stumbling into his tent and collapsing into the pelts, falling asleep as soon as his head hit the furs—and sometimes he dozed off during dinner itself.

A fortunate thing, in a way (a living Warden was important to Zevran for rather obvious reasons, Crows and sex being two of them) but it was counter-productive to Zevran's plans for the slow seduction of his Warden. There was not a lot a man could do when his soon-to-be lover fell into a near-coma every night…and only waking up long after the sun had rose, and the rest of their little party were already preparing to continue on their journey. Not much opportunities for seduction there, and much less on their hasty journey back to Denerim to look for the still-missing Genitivi.

Privately Zevran wondered if it was all just circumstance, or if there  _really_  was some sadistic god or goddess out there who was deliberately throwing obstacle after obstacle in his path of seduction.

Well, it was true that he had not been able to initiate sex, but he'd continued to sleep in the Warden's tent—largely at the Warden's insistence. He'd returned from scouting after that memorably uncomfortable talk with Leliana, only to find a scowling, prowling Warden who'd immediately pounced on him and rather tersely explained that he'd been "sorely put out" when he'd woken up and found that Zevran had disappeared from his bed. That was followed by a very impervious demand that Zevran was to spend the nights thereafter in the Warden's tent.

It had amused Zevran, and he'd playfully asked why. To which the Warden replied: "Because I want you there, naked in my bed, every night from now on. And I always get what I want."

Zevran smiled to himself as he remembered that. The low, growled words—and the purely  _hungry_  look in the Warden's eyes—had sent a pleasant little shiver down his spine. Still sent that shiver each time he thought of it. Demanding, his Warden, but oh-so-very-sexy when he behaved like that.

"Zevran?"

He blinked, found the Warden staring at him. "Hmm?"

"Stop thinking whatever it is that you're thinking. You're getting that glazed-eyed looked again." The Warden raised an eyebrow at him, the corners of the human's mouth quirking up. "We  _are_  on a quest here, you realize…try to focus a little more on the task at hand."

"Mm…" Zevran felt his mouth curve in a wicked grin. "There are better things I'd rather focus on…" His voice lowering into a purr, he let his gaze drop from the Warden's face to rove over the heavy-armored body. "…like having you beneath my hands right now."

He felt the gaze on him grow heated—wasn't surprised when, looking up at the Warden's eyes, he found himself caught in a gaze full of dark lust.

The Warden smiled, a little sharply. "Later," he said, his voice already half-growling. " _After_  we find some clue to Genitivi's whereabouts."

Zevran let out a melodramatic little sigh. "And I am rejected once again," he lamented, turning and heading to a little storage chest he'd spotted at the foot of the lone cot in the room. "Truly, my dear, you are maddeningly hard to please." He knelt down, opened the chest and glanced in it. Clothes, made of rough linen, crudely made and worn with age, far too wide for someone of Weylon's build—Genitivi's clothes, most likely. The brother must be a rather portly man.

He heard the Warden softly chuckle at his words, but there wasn't any reply—from the sounds behind him, the human was already rooting through the chest of drawers.

Pity. A little bit of flirting would've been more playtime than the sum of what he'd had with the Warden for the past week.

Rolling his eyes, he sorted through the clothes, somewhat carelessly tossing them over his shoulder after he had checked their pockets. There was a stale scent in the clothing—not the sour stench of unwashed sweat, but the dusty musk of clothes that had kept in a closed wooden chest from some time.

Genitivi, he remembered, had been missing for months—these clothes seem to have been stored away for much longer. Not very promising, all things considered. Perhaps he should help Wynne in the libr—

His fingers brushed against something stiff and decidedly un-clothing-like. Frowning, he closed his hand about it, felt the distinct blocky shape of a book.

 _Oh-ho! And what have we here?_ He pulled it out—it was indeed a book, thick and heavy, its covers leather bound and showing no distinct mark or words. Intrigued, he flipped it open, and found himself staring at pages upon pages of inked words—not the orderly script of a book meant for public reading, but the absent-minded scribbling of a mind jotting down private notes. Dates, diagrams, rough-drawn maps…a very promising find indeed. "Warden," he called out, flipping through more of the yellowed, worn pages. "I think I found something."

He heard the Warden push a drawer shut, and then the heavy thread of boots against the wooden floor, the clatter of armor. Sensed rather than saw the Warden lean over his shoulder to peer at the pages. "Is that a journal?"

Wordlessly, Zevran passed the book to the Warden, who immediately started flipping the pages, frowning in studious concentration as his eyes darted over the scrawlings.

"I hope there's  _something_  in there," Zevran said, gracefully rising to stand on his feet, dusting his hands as he did so. "Considering I dug through an old man's underthings to get that."

"Well, looks like your hard work paid off. This is a research journal. Specifically, research regarding the Urn of Sacred Ashes." The Warden's eyebrow rose as he continued flicking through pages. "This Genitivi is one rather long-winded fellow, that's for sure…but this looks interesting. 'The village of Haven in the Frostbacks seems a good place to start. Pity it's not on any maps.'" He snorted as he snapped the book shut. "Looks like we're heading to the Frostback Mountains."

Zevran thought back about those tall, imposing, impossibly  _cold_  mountains…and didn't quite manage to suppress the horrified shudder that went through him. "Again?" he asked, not bothering to keep the plaintive tone out of his voice. "In the heart of  _winter?_ "

The Warden smirked. "Unfortunately so, yes. Looks like you're going to have to grin and bear it."

Zevran groaned.

Chuckling, the Warden tucked the book under one arm, smiling broadly. "Really, Zevran, you've been here…what, almost a year now? Surely you'd be used to the weather by now."

Zevran glared at the Warden. "A year in Ferelden is nothing compared to decades in Antiva."

"Mmm…point taken." Still grinning, the Warden shrugged slightly and turned towards the doorway. "We best head out then, and get to the mountains soonest, before the cold  _really_  sets in and freezes your balls off."

"You, my dear Warden," Zevran spat, "are a cold, cruel man."

The grin that the Warden shot at him was all sharp teeth. "But you like that about me, don't you?" the human said with a wink, before going through the doorway and vanishing into the main hall.

Leaving Zevran staring at the doorway, only half-listening to the Warden's voice calling for Alistair and Wynne.

Zevran sighed, and then smiled ruefully. Ah, well…what the Warden said was true. He liked the human's cold, ruthless side…even as he enjoyed the warm, friendly side. He  _especially_  liked the hot, awesomely sexy side.

He thought about the next stop of their journey, and recalled the remark about balls freezing off...

His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. There was some wisdom there…although the Warden didn't know it. As they moved to higher ground, it'll eventually get colder…and he had no doubt that the mountains were swarming with darkspawn by now.

Which meant that there was precious little time left for the both of them to indulge in sex—especially the hours-long bout of seduction that Zevran had in mind.

It was especially important that he did this properly. The Warden was not completely open to the idea yet, Zevran could tell—even if the Warden himself didn't know it.

 _Soon._  He mentally nodded to himself as he decided that. It had to be done soon, when they'd moved far enough away from Denerim to avoid Loghain's men, but close enough to civilization that they wouldn't be ambushed in the dead of the night by darkspawn.

Now the problem was how to set the scene…

_~to be continued~_


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'ed; all mistakes are my own.

 

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 26_

* * *

 

Lady Luck had decided to favor Zevran after all.

He had been waiting for the opportunity, and it had finally strolled up to him and said 'hello'. It was two days since they had left Denerim, and the Warden had been pushing them hard on the road—the disturbing knowledge Wynne had found, that of a possible dragon cult in Haven, had driven the Warden to find and rescue Genitivi before it was too late, and the human had been ridden by an almost frenetic energy that even  _Sten_ found hard to keep up with.

So it wasn't surprising that by nightfall, most of the party had gone to bed early. He'd milled about the campfire after their dinner, waiting until most of the others had moved away to their tents. He'd taken care to keep to the shadows, visible but unnoticed, and no one questioned his presence—or his seeming reluctance to retire. It wasn't long before the camp had grown quiet, and there was no one around except him, Leliana and the mabari Anlan.

It was Leliana's turn at watch, and the ever-watchful Anlan had chosen to remain at her side. Zevran and her both were not as exhausted as the rest—by virtue of their lighter equipment, their physical training as rogues, and their relative youth, they'd suffered less than the warriors and the mages in their group.

He glanced at her briefly, where she sat by the fire idly strumming her lute, her expression and slightly swaying head showing that she was humming to herself. Anlan had sprawled at her feet, the great head raised, the tiny ears perked up and twitching at every slight sound, the bright eyes alert.

Those two were well-focused on their tasks—satisfied with that, he left the campfire, going in search of his Warden.

As he'd expected, the Warden was not asleep yet—the human had gone to the secluded little spot where he'd stored their party's spare supplies and equipment, and was now taking out weapons and armor, inspecting each piece carefully before putting it back where he had gotten it from.

At first appearance, it seemed very much like a sensible and completely unremarkable thing to do for the leader of a travelling band of fighters—it was only when one watched carefully and realized that the Warden was picking up items in completely random order that one would realize that the ritualistic movements had less to do with caution and more to do with nerves.

He stayed back in the shadows for a while, watching the human fuss—because the Warden  _was_  fussing, despite to the slow and careful studies of equipment. His face was calm, almost serene…but there was a tightness around the Warden's eyes and mouth that conveyed the tension riding him almost as well as if he had actually said it aloud.

Zevran mentally scoffed at that. His Warden really was too grim at times—he wondered if the other man had every truly relaxed, even when alone.

 _Well, Zevran,_ said a voice in his head,  _isn't that why you're here?_

He smiled slightly as his hand drifted over the pocket of his tunic, feeling the weight of the little prize he had procured from the market. He had to admit, that lovely Orlesian woman knew her way around scents, even if her prices were extravagantly high—he had no doubt that the cost of his acquisition was ridiculously obscene.

Since he actually stole it rather than paid for it, he supposed that it didn't matter either way.

Smirking, he slipped out of the shadows, carefully pressing his weight on his step to crunch the stony, slightly frost-hardened ground beneath his boot—the satisfying crunch was enough to catch the Warden's attention.

The other man glanced up at him, one large hand still holding a dagger—a heavily enchanted tool with a wickedly dangerous edge that neither he nor Leliana had the confidence to actually wield in battle just yet—before he looked back at the weapons pile as he set the dagger carefully down. "Zevran," he said, straightening and turning towards the elf. "I thought that you'd be asleep by now."

Zevran smiled and shrugged. "The night is still young, my dear," he said, his raised brows making his statement sound more suggestive than it really was. "I'm in no hurry to go to sleep just yet."

The Warden frowned at that. "It's a long way to the Frostback Mountains," he said pointedly, arms crossing over his chest. "It's important that you rest."

 _And yet you're here, and clearly not getting enough of that rest._  Zevran kept that thought to himself; he smiled instead, and shrugged again. "I'll rest when I need to; do not worry too much," he said, at the same time shifting until he was standing only a foot away from the Warden.

This close, he could actually sense the tightness of the Warden's body, see the tension that had hardened the handsome face.

Well, Zevran was going to change that.

Clicking his tongue against his teeth in disapproval, he raised his hand and lightly cupped the Warden's cheek, cradling it. "Look at you," he said, letting his concern creep into his voice. "The weary stance, the dark circles under your eyes. Poor man, all this constant walking has gotten to you."

The Warden's eyebrow rose slightly at this. Perfectly aware of the inquiring look, Zevran smiled. "Do you know what you need?"

His voice was challenging, almost taunting.

"A horse?" came the quick reply, a smirk twisting the Warden's lips.

Zevran laughed at the cheeky quip. "A little late for that, I think." He stepped closer to the Warden, his smile growing sultry as he purred: "My thought is this. We retire to your tent …" He let the hand that had been resting on the Warden's cheek slowly trail down, ghosting along the firm jaw and down the long throat, before resting on the Warden's chest, just over the heart. All the while he kept his eyes on the Warden's—watched as the keen gaze darkened and sharpened. His smile grew into a full grin. "…and I show you the sort of massage skills that one only learns growing up in an Antivan whorehouse."

He felt the heartbeat beneath his hand leap—the heat of the Warden's body was searing hot, even through the thick wool of his tunic.

"Are you suggesting what I think you are?" the Warden asked with a smile as light as his tone…a complete contrast to the heavy-lidded eyes, and the low throaty growl that had started to infuse his voice.

Zevran chuckled. "If you mean to ask whether or not there might be more than a massage involved, allow me to say that you won't be disappointed with any of the techniques I've picked up over the years."

His own voice had lowered to a sensual purr—and he was delighted to see the Warden's eyes darken, and that damnable wolf's grin start to creep into the other man's smile.

"Hmm…" The Warden tilted his head, an entirely insincerely-considering look on his face. "Are you sure about this?"

 _Playing coy games again?_  Chuckling at that, Zevran stepped back slightly, raised a challenging brow. "What is there to fear, my Grey Warden? You deserve a bit of fun, do you not? If you're not of a mind, however, it is no tragedy."  _Only a wonderful opportunity lost…which is a tragedy of sorts, come to think of it._

The wolfish grin was in full view now, and the look in the Warden's eyes was fully intent as his arms unfolded, and his hand reached for Zevran. "No, I'm definitely of a mind."

Zevran grinned as he allowed the hands to encircle his waist—ever the opportunist, he raised his own hands, wound them behind the Warden's head, fingers spearing through the thick hair. He didn't bother to dampen the heat in his own eyes, or smooth the huskiness in his voice as he said: "Then why are we still talking?"

The Warden's eyes gleamed—he was laughing softly as, obligingly following the tug of Zevran's hands, he bent his head down, and met Zevran's lips.

Brushed. Stroked, sipped.

Zevran smiled, and did the same, allowing the soft, almost tender kiss to continue for a moment, before he opened his mouth slightly, let his tongue flick out and lick against the seam between the Warden's own lips.

Light, gentle,  _teasing_ …and then suddenly Zevran felt his lips being parted by a demanding tongue, felt it surge into his mouth and lay claim.

The sudden change in pace vaporized his wits—and his careful plans. He was caught beneath a hard, fast, scorching kiss—hard enough to send his pulse leaping, fast enough to make his head spin…

Scorching enough to make his body  _burn_.

The Warden locked his arms around him, pulled him flush against that deliciously muscled body. Heat to burning heat, chest to chest, hips to hard thighs.

Zevran gasped, felt the burn grow into a familiar ache. He reacted, barely thinking, gripping the thick locks of the Warden's hair, and kissed the other man back, sent his tongue to tangle with the other's in a wild, primitive, completely uninhibited dance.

He felt the arms around him ease, felt strong hands slide down, over his back, down his hips and around to grip his bottom—and pulled, drew their bodies closer still, molding them together. The Warden rocked evocatively against him, the kiss growing bolder, and Zevran felt that heat turn into wildfire, felt it race down his veins and flaring beneath his skin, consuming his will…

_You're going too fast._

The warning came to Zevran in a fleeting instant of lucidity—but it was enough to reel his thoughts back. No, he had a plan—this was hot, this was  _good_ , but this was  _too fast._

Abruptly, he pulled back, gulped in a much-needed breath. His eyes—hazed with desire, he was sure—rose and met with the Warden's.

Saw a frustrated question in the sharp eyes.

 _Later,_  he said, not with his voice but with his eyes, his had a plan, and he intended to follow through it.

He saw the lustful haze fade slightly from the Warden's gaze—and was grateful for it when the Warden sighed and stepped back, letting Zevran out of his arms.

He took in another breath of the cold night air to cool his head and blood, before he smiled at the Warden. "Shall we go?"

The Warden snorted, smiling ever so slightly. "You lead."

Chuckling, Zevran turned and strode to the Warden's tent.

It was much more difficult than it looked. The Warden followed closely behind as he led—not touching him at all, but so close that Zevran's nerves constantly leapt, unerringly aware of the large predatory male behind.

He lifted the tent flap, crawled into the dark confines. Heard the Warden follow him in.

Behind him, close. Zevran stilled, waited…and then one large hand slid about his waist, lightly pulled back, gently but effectively trapped him against the Warden's large body.

The Warden bent near; the broad chest at Zevran's back, the strong thighs bracketing the elf's slimmer ones as the hand at his waist drew him closer. Zevran felt fingers brush aside his hair, exposing his nape, and then lips touched, brushed, caressed. Closing his eyes, Zevran sighed and smiled, savoring the teasing touch.

Then the Warden's voice, deep and dangerous and dark as the night outside, brushed over his ear, slid over his already heightened senses. "The night is yours, Zevran." A wet, hot, open-mouthed kiss pressed on his nape, on his spine, and then the Warden spoke again, "Show me what you have learned."

Dear Maker, that  _voice…_ low, husky, suggestive of red velvet and black satin, of wanton debauchery and sensual pursuits. And the scent of him…sharp musk with a hint of spice, redolent of hot, moist places and soft, delectable flesh.

Zevran couldn't quite quell the shiver as his nerves danced wildly, awakened by a rush of anticipation at the promise of long-desired sensual gratification.

Smirking, he tilted his head back, met the Warden's expectant gaze. "Take off your clothes, then," he purred, "and get on your bed."

The Warden raised his brows at the order, his gaze faintly challenging, but he smiled and stepped back. "As you wish," he said softly. He shifted to kneel before the furs, keeping his back to Zevran.

And began to strip.

The Warden took his clothes off with casual ease, as if he was merely undressing before going to sleep, and not baring his body to a pair of avidly watching eyes. And Zevran watched very avidly indeed—the sight of the Warden naked never failed to fascinate him.

Wide, powerful shoulders, arms thick with muscle. Sculpted back tapering to narrow waist and slim hips. High, tight buttocks above long, sleekly-muscled legs.

All covered with smooth skin, lightly dusted with crinkly hair.

Zevran resisted the urge to pounce on that body and start leaving bite marks on that skin. He did, however, lick his lips appreciatively.

The firelight from the camp shone through the tent's walls, and it played over the Warden's body, over the dimples and hollows, the muscle bands that shifted and contracted under the taut, lightly bronzed skin…then the Warden turned his head. Caught Zevran staring.

To which Zevran merely raised his brows, his mouth curving into a cat-eyeing-unguarded-cream smile.

A corner of the Warden's lips twitched upwards—smirking, the Warden winked, and then turned way.

Mouth drying, Zevran continued to stare as the Warden bent and crawled, on all fours, onto his bed, offering Zevran a  _very_ nice view of his behind, before smoothly stretching out on the bed, lying on his stomach with his head resting on his forearms.

"Good enough for you?" the Warden asked, sounding amused.

Zevran let his eyes trail over the smooth flowing line of delicious male. Felt his smile widen as he approached the bed. "Oh,  _yes,_ " he murmured, toeing off his boots and climbing onto the bed. "More than good enough."

He shifted until he was kneeling over the Warden's body, straddling the hips, rolling a sleeve up his arm as he did so.

His leg, clad in heavy breeches, brushed against the Warden's bare skin—something which did not escape the Warden's notice. "Not taking your clothes off, Zevran?"

Zevran chuckled as he rolled up the other sleeve. "What? Bare myself to the elements in the middle of winter, with not a single stitch on to warm me? Not a chance." He pulled the little glass vial out of his pocket, and—with a little more haste than necessary—uncorked it, and poured out a generous amount of the light amber contents.

The Warden sniffed at the scents of fragrant jasmine, sandalwood and cloves that wafted to him. "That's a nice blend."

"Glad you approve," Zevran replied lightly, setting the bottle aside and rubbing his hands together, warming the oil between his palms.

"Mm-hmm. You're going to have to pay that girl back for it, you know."

Zevran stilled. "I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, don't play the fool," the Warden murmured. "I saw what you did back in Denerim."

 _Did you, now?_  "Were you watching me, my dear Warden?" Zevran asked teasingly—although the idea that he got caught was distinctly not amusing.

The Warden twisted his head to the side, glancing at Zevran out of the corner of one eye. "It's one thing to steal from corrupt nobility, and another thing to steal from an honest merchant," he said softly, firmly. "You  _are_  going to pay her back, even if I had to drag you by the ear to do it."

Zevran stared at the Warden.  _He's serious—completely and utterly serious._  The face was smooth and relaxed, the voice soft, but Zevran recognized that hard, commanding gaze from the many, many times the Warden had issued orders in battle with the full expectation that the recipient would do as he demanded.

He sighed, making a face as he rubbed his palms together again. "Fine, fine, I'll pay her back," he muttered, rolling his eyes. "I shall do that, if it would soothe your noble soul."

The visible half of the Warden's lips curved. "Thank you," he said, as if Zevran's last comment was not said in sarcasm.

Snorting, Zevran declined to comment—instead set his hands to the Warden's back and rubbed the perfumed oil into the skin with smooth, firm strokes.

The Warden's body was heated, even in the otherwise chill air, and as Zevran rubbed that warmth seeped into his own hands, warming him as well—and caused a little coil of heat to curl low in his belly.

He had given massages many times before in the past—clients, targets, friends, lovers. He was, in his heart, always a professional, and he'd always made sure to give pleasure to those who'd been beneath his hands. But always with the intent to persuade, to charm, to manipulate—always keeping his own body in check, keeping his mind coolly focused on whatever motive he had for giving such intimate pleasures.

And yet…he did not do that now. Not with his Warden. In spite of himself, he found his thoughts, his senses, focusing on the human that lay docile beneath his moving hands. He listened to the soft grunts and moans the Warden made as he coaxed tense muscle to soften, to relax; felt the body beneath him grow languid and warm with each stroke and pat of his hands on supple flesh; saw the Warden's eyes drift close and the face smooth into sensual contentment as Zevran eased the tension from knotted muscles.

As the body relaxed, Zevran's own strokes changed—from firm kneading into gentle stroking, palms gliding over now-silken skin. He shifted backwards, dragging his hands down to squeeze the Warden's firm buttocks. Fascinated, he watched the muscle clench slightly at his touch. "You know, you have interesting little dimples in each cheek when you clench your behind?"

The Warden chuckled, the sound mellow. "Didn't know you have a liking for dimples," he murmured, his voice husky.

"They are quite attractive on certain body parts." Smirking, Zevran continued to shift back, running his hands over the back of Warden's legs.

Up, down, up, down…Zevran worked his hands from the outer thigh inwards, and when he reached the softer skin between the lean legs he eased the pressure of his hands, and let them ghost up in a feather-light caress from the knees up, up, until his fingers so-very-lightly brushed the heavy sacs between the tops of the Warden's legs.

Felt—and saw—the Warden freeze, going entirely rigid. Heard the other man's breath catch and hold.

"Sorry," Zevran murmured, sounding just the opposite as he shifted further down. "That was an accident."

"…of course. And I'm the queen of Antiva." The Warden relaxed only slightly, tension of an entirely different sort from before now gripping his body. "You are a very mean tease."

"Of course. I  _am_  a professional, no?" Zevran countered lightly, his hands now kneading the Warden's calves.

It happened in an eye-blink. One moment he was one top of the Warden, massaging the calves—the next moment, he was flat on his back, his wrists caught and pinned above his head by a pair of strong hands, and the Warden's large body looming over him.

Quickly recovering from the shock (his Warden really was ridiculously fast without that armor—in another time and place he should have been trained as a rogue), Zevran blinked, and then grinned up at the Warden. "You know, I haven't finished with you yet."

The handsome face—hovering just inches over his—was still lazily content, the mouth soft and relaxed. But there was no mistaking the intent gleam in those piercing eyes as the Warden grinned, more predatory than Zevran had ever seen him before.

"And you know," the Warden murmured, his grin sharpening. "I'm actually  _envious_  of whoever you'd been practicing on—but I'll let that pass." He shifted his grip, clasping both of Zevran's wrists beneath one hand; the freed hand reached down to rub the pad of its thumb across Zevran's lower lip, tracing the shape of it. "But I think it's about time I learned about your  _other_  techniques."

Zevran never wasted an opportunity—he opened his mouth and slowly slid his tongue across the exploring pad of that thumb, his eyes holding the Warden's in an intent, laughing gaze. He chuckled as the keen eyes darkened. "Getting a little impatient, are we?"

"Maybe." The Warden leaned down, touching the tip of his own tongue to the edge of Zevran's ear before whispering. "I'd like to see how my own technique compares with yours."

Zevran shivered at the touch, even as his body trembled with laughter. "A challenge!" he exclaimed in mock surprise. "Now this is intriguing. What kind of stakes are we playing for?"

The Warden laughed softly, darkly, as he straightened to look at Zevran's face. "Pleasure," he said, in a soft, low voice. "Fulfillment. The ultimate pinnacle of bliss. Are you willing to play, Zevran?"

The almost guttural growling sent a sharp spike of lust straight through Zevran's chest—making his lungs seize—and down into his groin—making him ache. "Well! With a prize like that," he said, a little breathlessly, "I'd be a fool to refuse that, no?"

The Warden's grin was entirely untrustworthy, a slow slide of wicked anticipation. "You're right. You'd definitely be a fool," he breathed as his head lowered.

 _I believe that there would be no losers in this game,_  Zevran thought to himself, before those smiling lips touched his, and ripped that thought away.

_~to be continued~_


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'ed; all mistakes are my own.

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 27_

* * *

The Warden kissed him to within an inch of his life.

He'd taken the same intensity of their kissing earlier outside, and had increased that tenfold—turning the kiss into a hot, hungry plundering of Zevran's lips, domineering and commanding, tongue stroking into his mouth as if the Warden was trying to suck out his very breath.

It was ridiculously exciting.

Zevran groaned and matched him, refused to yield. Boldly challenged the Warden instead, and then shuddered as the Warden kissed him even more deeply, with undisguised, unrestrained, elemental passion.

The hand that had not been pinning down his wrist pressed over his chest, where his heart beat wildly. And then raced down, sliding over his torso, impressing through the thick wool of his tunic, down all the way to his breeches, and palmed over the bulge there.

Abruptly Zevran's wits spun wildly out of control, the sensations streaking through him as bold fingers traced, caressed, and fondled, making him arch back into the touches as he moaned into the mouth still eating at his.

He heard—and felt—the Warden give a soft laugh of triumph. Snarling, he abruptly jerked his arms, freed his hands from the Warden's grip. Grabbed the strong shoulders, pushed, twisted, rising beneath the larger man and flipped him over. He heard the Warden yelp in surprise, saw the keen eyes widening in surprise, and then Zevran straddled him again, gripping the Warden's hips with his knees, his hands already tangling in thick hair as he bent his head down and caught the Warden's mouth with his, found the other man's tongue, and proceeded to breath fire down the other man's veins.

Let his desire—the desire he had been denied fulfilling for so long—freely rise and take him, and claim the man beneath him.

The Warden groaned into the kiss, and kissed back with that uninhibited passion that Zevran found so intriguing, blatantly demanding more, even as his strong, large hands reached up to rove over Zevran's body—hard, hot, urgent hands gripping at his clothes blindly, struggling to take them off.

Then they suddenly gripped the collar of Zevran's tunic, and yanked—

A loud rip tore through the tent as the material gave, a large tear splitting down the front of Zevran's tunic. Zevran's eyes widened, but the Warden continued to pull, ripping down and down, until his tunic hung open in his front like a makeshift jacket.

And then the greedy hands were back, touching his bared chest, exploring, assessing, branding. Found his nipples and tweaked them, making him shudder.

He smiled into the still-heated kiss. Two can play at this game.

The Warden was already naked, so he didn't have to wrestle with clothes—he simply let go of the Warden's hair and sent his hands down to skate over hot, hot skin as his tongue plunged deep into the Warden's mouth, to spread over the Warden's chest and find the hardened nubs of his nipples. Pinched, rubbed, pulled.

The Warden broke the kiss, flinging his head back, and let out a sound that was almost-but-not-quite a whimper as he shifted beneath Zevran's hands.

Begging for more.

Well, Zevran was always willing to oblige. Especially when the Warden's demands were complementary to his wants.

He pressed a kiss to the hollow beneath the Warden's ears, and then traced down, over the taut line of his throat, over the broad expense of his chest, and then to the furled nipple he was rolling between his fingers.

He took it into his mouth, heard a gasp. And then he suckled, and heard the Warden moan.

He continued to let his mouth play, even he shrugged off his now-ruined tunic, and set his fingers to the placket of his breeches, letting out an inward sigh as his erection sprang free. He wiggled out of the tight leather, kicking them off and aside.

He let go of the flesh in his mouth, giving it one last nip and lick, before he straightened up and looked down at the Warden.

At the lightly-flushed face, the open panting mouth, the eyes glittering with desire.

He smiled as he shifted down and back, letting the cleft between his buttocks hover just above the rigid flesh of the Warden's cock. Saw the human's body lock, freeze, as the darkened eyes stared at him. "Do you want me?" Zevran asked softly, watching the Warden closely.

The arrogant, winged brows rose. "Isn't that rather obvious?" the Warden asked back, sounding both amused and a little peeved.

Zevran chuckled as he reached down, and closed his hands about the Warden's rigid erection. "Oh, I wouldn't know," he said lightly, letting his fingers glide and dance and tease, and delighted as the Warden's face tightened, his eyes hardening. "I have a... suggestion."

"Do elaborate."

"You wanted to see how my technique compares to yours, yes? So I'm proposing a way we could have that challenge." He tightened his fingers about the prize in his hands, one thumb dragging over the blunt head.

The Warden hissed a breath in between his teeth, his eyes squeezing shut. He had to take several short, shallow breaths before he sighed, his eyes still closed, and gritted out, "Go on."

"It goes like this: I want you to take that massage oil I used and prepare me, and while you do that, I will suck you off." Zevran waited until the Warden's eyes opened and met his, before he raised a brow. "Do you agree?"

The Warden's smile was more like a baring of teeth than an expression of amusement. "I think I can manage that."

Zevran laughed. "Excellent choice." He let go of the Warden's erection and leaned over to the side to pick up the until-then forgotten bottle of oil and pressing it into the Warden's waiting hand. "I'll leave it to you then," he said with a smirk.

The Warden stared at him, his face tight and harsh, fingers tightening about the small bottle, but said nothing.

Chuckling at that, Zevran rose to his knees and shifted, swung around, so that his back was to the Warden, and he backed up until he could bend over the Warden's erection, now in line with his head. He captured it between his hands again and stroked it lightly.

He felt the Warden shift beneath him, and heard a light pop as the Warden uncorked the bottle, and the fragrance once again permeated the air. Smiling, he bent his head down and licked slowly over the broad head of the Warden's erection, before letting his tongue swirl around the ridge, one of his hands cupping the heavy balls while he circled the rigid shaft with the other.

The Warden groaned, his body jerking and shuddering.

"Too much for you?" Zevran asked, tauntingly, letting his breath ghost over the heated flesh in deliberate teasing.

"No," came the growled reply. At the same time Zevran felt the tip of an oiled finger caress the cleft of his behind, sliding down to lightly circle around the puckered skin of his anus—and he shivered at the light touch, his body already clenching with anticipation. He heard the Warden chuckle, and then say, "Please go on."

Obligingly, he opened his mouth and took the Warden's erection, his hand gliding up and down the rest of the shaft that he had not taken into his mouth yet. The Warden hissed a breath, and the finger that had been playing with his behind pressed, and slipped in through the ring of muscle.

Unbidden, Zevran's hips jerked back, spearing more of the invading digit into him as he swallowed back a moan. It has been a while since he had done this, and while familiar the finger inside him felt uncomfortably invasive. Forcing his mind away from the strange-yet-not sensations, he devoted his attention back to using his mouth, his hands, to please the Warden.

Which turned out to be a lot more difficult than expected.

The Warden rather clearly knew what he was doing—his finger twisted, curled, stroking in and out slowly, gently loosening the tight passage for something much thicker. Zevran felt himself relaxing, and the familiar pleasure was back, and he murmured appreciatively as he felt the finger fully withdraw, only to return with another digit, spreading him wider. At the same time the Warden's free hand closed about Zevran's neglected erection, and he sighed as the fingers stroked lightly in time with the in-out movement of the oil-slick fingers, heard the Warden groan as his sigh vibrated around the heated flesh in his mouth.

He continued to suck, fondle, and did his best to ignore the fingers moving inside of him. It was a challenge of technique, after all, and he certainly didn't want to lo—

A third finger joined the ones that were already in him, stretching even further, at the same time they curled in.

He pulled his head away abruptly from the Warden's erection, and clenched his teeth as the fingers dug  _hard_  into that sweet spot, and then they started to flick back and forth, sending lightning shooting up his spine.

He heard a loud groan—it took a moment before he realized that it came from his throat. It took another moment before he realized that he was pushing back into the fingers that were filling him, all but forgetting the erection that he was supposed to be sucking on.

He heard the Warden's taunting, gloating laugh—realized he'd lost this challenge.

Just as well. He was burning, aching, and he wanted,  _needed_  to feel the Warden inside of him.

Gritting his teeth, he crawled away, the fingers sliding out of him with a wet sound, and spun around. Before the Warden could react, he'd scooted back, his hand reaching back and closing about the Warden's erection, guiding the head to his stretched entrance, let it nudge in, and then, bracing his other hand on the Warden's chest, he eased up, his eyelids fluttering closed as he sat back—

Let his body slide back and down, over the Warden's flesh. His breathing fractured, a sensual shudder coursing down his spine as his body gave, sheathing the rigid strength of the man beneath him, taking it in, accepting it. Zevran heard the Warden gasp, hands grasping his hips as Inch by inch he pressed down, fully in control, shifting to take the Warden deeper, than deeper still.

It was mind-numbing, wholly exhilarating, all-consuming—the heat, the pressure, the rock-solid reality. Even the burn only punctuated the pleasure that coursed through him. Breathing out sharply, he spread his knees wider, moaning as he sank lower yet to take all of the Warden, press the other man as high inside as he could.

And then hold him tight, his body clenching.

" _Maker!_ " The Warden's hands tightened, fingers sinking into Zevran's hips, holding him down. "Andraste's blood, hold still."

The deep voice was beyond strained, almost breaking.

Zevran's eyes opened slightly to peer at the Warden's face, at the blankness passion had wrought in the other man's expression, and he obligingly held still. Smirking, he used the moment to savor the feeling of the Warden's manhood high inside him, of how the Warden filled him, full to almost bursting, of how his body welcomed the heated flesh in. His sense were thrumming, his pulse throbbing beneath his skin—he felt heated,  _alive_ , and ready for what was to come.

When the Warden only lay there, completely still, eyes closed and jaw clenched, Zevran's smirk widened into a grin. "Is there a problem?" he asked, while he deliberately let his body clench and unclench rhythmically on the Warden's erection.

The Warden's eyes opened, met Zevran's enquiring gaze. They were dark, almost black, only the thinnest ring of color showing around the pupil. "No," the Warden said, sounding more than a little breathless. "No problems at all."

"Good." Zevran's voice was a sultry purr. "Then I supposed you don't mind me doing  _this—_ " Still bracing his hand on the Warden's body, he slowly eased up, up…and just before the head of the Warden's erection could slip out of him, he reversed direction, sinking even more slowly back down, body clenching as he did.

The Warden's jaw tightened even further—Zevran could see a muscle flutter beneath the skin of his cheek—and his hips jerked up as Zevran sank that last inch back down.

Smiling at that, Zevran closed his eyes, and let his body move. Rode the Warden in earnest.

The Warden didn't move much—he only lifted his hips at that last inch back down, leaving it entirely up to Zevran to control the pace. So he kept it slow, steady, only gradually moving faster and harder, savoring the feel of thick flesh moving in him. His breaths started to come in labored pants; gasping, he arched his body back, and as he sank down the head of the Warden's erection drove straight into the sweet spot inside him, making him cry out and increase his pace.

Rode him, harder, faster, sliding his knees wider still to take the Warden even deeper. His pulse thundered, the rush of his blood roaring through his mind as he set a relentlessly driving rhythm designed to send them both gasping.

The Warden's hands were almost painfully tight about his hips. The other man's breaths were harsh and punctuated with hoarse groans that only served to add to Zevran's excitement. Moaning, he let his hips move of their own accord, his body straining to reach that pinnacle of pleasure. The reins on his control had gone and he couldn't grab them back, could only surrender to the fire that had ravaged him and filled him with blinding urgency that drove him. He was close, so very close—

The Warden released his grip on Zevran's hips, only to trace the slender bones down, to Zevran's throbbing erection. Zevran bit back a shriek as the hot hands closed about him, pulled, squeezed…

Orgasm rushed up and caught Zevran by surprise—without meaning to, without even  _realizing_  he was about to, he let out a helpless, distressed, completely  _naked_  little sound as his spine stiffened and he came over the Warden's milking hands and undulating stomach, his mind and vision blanking with the pleasure as it closed it, swept him up.

Shattered him.

Dimly he heard the Warden let out a low, guttural groan as the hips beneath his snapped up, and he felt the sudden wetness inside of him, knew the Warden joined him at that bright peak.

Felt the ecstasy that rushed through their veins, burning them both, and for that one moment, they were joined, fused, before they both tumbled down, locked together, into a sea of pleasured satiation.

_~to be continued~_


	28. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'ed; all mistakes are my own.

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Interlude_

* * *

Alistair didn't know if he should be horrified, disgusted, embarrassed…or if he should continue to listen.

He lay in his tent, on his belly, his eyes wide open, and his pillow pulled over his head and squeezed down to shield his ears. But even the fluffy, feathery thicknesses didn't manage to stifle the  _sounds_.

Moans. Grunts. Sighs. The occasional choked scream.

 _Maker's breath._  Don't those two ever  _stop?_

Scowling, he squeezed his eyes shut, and tried something he had been attempting for the past hour: blocking those sounds out of his mind and  _going to sleep._

Five minutes ticked by. Ten. Twenty.

Cursing, he flung the pillow off to one side, threw his blankets off the other, and went searching for his tunic.

Looks like he won't be getting much sleep tonight.

Grumbling, he struggled into the thick wool, wincing as the shoulder seam pulled tight.  _Maker_ , he wasn't sure if he should be proud or embarrassed. The Warden had been making him wear heavier and heavier armor lately—the inevitable result was that he was starting to grow  _thicker_ , and _because_ of that his clothes had been growing tighter. Soon he would have to buy a new set of clothing—or convince Wynne to let out the seams. Imagining the elder mage's reaction to his request, he felt his lips twitch into a smile.

Oh, well. If he was up, he might as well raid their party's little store of food and grab something to eat. He was feeling a little peckish anyway.

Another of those moans drifted over the air towards him. Gritting his teeth, he got out of his tent and strode purposefully to their food store.

The faint sound of humming poked through the sleepy fog in his head and alerted him. Blinking, he glanced up at the campfire.

The campfire had burned down into a small little patch now, although it still burned merrily—just not bright enough that they were a beacon for whatever nasty things were lurking out in the dark forest beyond. It  _was_  bright enough, however, that he could see Leliana's face as she sat very still on the long, her eyes staring off at some point in the distance in front of her, one hand resting on the bow on her lap and the other absently patting the nug –he absolutely refused to call that oversized, hairless, squeaky, porcine rodent 'Schmooples'—that had curled up beside her on her log. The humming was from her, and somehow managed to be in tune even if it was following no melody that Alistair could guess at.

The quiet sadness on her face tightened around his heart like a fist.

He watched her for a moment, wondering again what had brought her here. He'd always thought of her as strange—Maker, he thought she was  _crazy_  when she offered to join them in Lothering, especially after claiming to see a vision from the Maker. The months of travelling with her did _nothing_  to dispel his initial notion. She may have kept her feet solidly on the ground when it came to things like fighting and sneak-thievery, but when it came to everything elseLeliana seemed to have her head stuck airily up in the clouds somewhere. Who else would want to keep a nug for a pet?

Still, she was nice, sweet, kind, gentle, and all those descriptions that would fit a paragon of maidenly virtue—if not for the occasional mischievous quip from her that broke through that illusion and reminded Alistair  _very_  firmly that, as religious as she was, she had an undoubtedly colorful past before she found the Maker, so to speak.

He just wondered what that past was.

Shrugging, he turned. Well, that was a story only the Warden would have heard—Leliana seemed to confide a lot in the unofficial alpha of their pack—and if Alistair stood around a little longer, he wasn't helping with his hunger all that much.

"Alistair."

He barely—just only barely—managed to manfully bite back a not-so-manly yelp of surprise. He  _did_ , however, jump a foot in the air before, breathing a little shallowly, he turned around, and found Leliana's amused blue gaze staring at him.

She smiled cheerily, all trace of the melancholy earlier gone from her face as she waved.

 _Caught_. Sighing, he smiled ruefully and headed her way.

"Can't sleep?" she asked as he approached. The innocent tone was completely at odds with her teasing, too-knowing look.

He blushed a little under that scrutinizing gaze, ducking his head to hide it—even though it was too dark for her to actually see it. At least he hoped so. "Yes, well, I was feeling a little hungry."

"And no doubt our friends kept you up," she said, sounding truly amused this time. "They're a rather…vigorous couple, aren't they? They sound like they are having a lot of fun."

"You know what? I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," he muttered, trying very hard to think about what she meant by 'fun'. Not that his imagination had much to draw inspiration from, but the half-fuzzy images that his imagination  _did_ manage to clumsily piece together was enough to make him uncomfortably hot under the collar.

She giggled softly, her fingers fluttering over her hand to hide her mouth. It was a very feminine, almost girly gesture, straight out of a delicate noblewoman's book of etiquette and manners—something about not showing your teeth when you laugh, Alistair remembered absently. "Well, since you're awake and hungry, why not join me? I have some food, and I could use the company."

The word 'food' perked him up instantly. "Oh, of course," he said quickly. "Food's fine."

"I'm sure it is," she said with that tiny, amused smile again as she picked up the bundle of linen beside her and passed it over into Alistair's waiting hands.

Hoping he didn't look too greedy, he took the bundle from her with a murmured 'thanks' and opened it on his lap. Bread, cured meat, some cheese and nuts…typical camper's fare, but he wasn't complaining.

Mentally sighing in contentment, he fell upon the food with gusto.

He  _did_  stop short of eating all of it, though—Leliana would likely need some extra food. Stifling a belch behind a fist, he wrapped up the much-reduced remains of food back in the linen and looked up—

Only to find Leliana with her elbow braced on her knee, propping her head on one hand, and looking at him with that strange, amused smile on her face.

He didn't jump this time, thank the Maker, although he  _did_ glare at her. "What?" he asked a little peevishly, and not a little unnerved.

She hummed, her smile widening ever-so-slightly—he could see the corners of her eyes crinkle. "Oh, nothing. Just watching you eat."

"…okay, you know what, that was a little bit creepy." He frowned. "Why are you watching me eat?"

Her lips actually parted this time, giving him a glimpse of her small, even teeth. "Because you're rather cute when you eat." Before Alistair could puzzle out the meaning behind that comment, she went on, "You have a bit of cheese stuck on your face."

"What?"

"Right over here." She tapped on a spot on her cheek, just above the right corner of her mouth.

Frowning, he reached up and gingerly touched his face with his thumb—and encountered that little bit of cheese she mentioned. "Oh. You're right. I do have a bit of cheese there." He rubbed the largish crumb off with the pad of his thumb, glanced at it, thought…and shrugged, sucking it right off his thumb. He didn't like wasting food, and it was  _good_  cheese.

At that moment a loud moan punctuated the air. Leliana pressed her lips together, her eyes dancing with laughter as they flicked to the Warden's tent (which was never too far from the fire, for some odd reason) even as Alistair felt a horrified, highly-embarrassed flush color his face, ears and neck.

"Maker's breath,' he muttered, his voice drawing Leliana's attention. "I think I should start following Morrigan's example and camp out a little further from here." Then he imagined being left out there,  _alone_ , with the witch-bitch for company…blinked, and then shuddered. "Wait, you know what? Scratch that. I'd rather listen to this than be with Morrigan."

Leliana laughed aloud at that. "You don't get along with her very well, don't you?"

"She's a bitch," he snapped, and then saw Leliana raise a brow at him…making him instantly realize what he said. "I mean, uh, an unpleasant woman. Not that  _all_  women are unpleasant, I mean."

"Really?" Leliana said noncommittally, her expression blank.

 _Smooth, Alistair, really smooth._ "Well, yes." He floundered for the words to rectify this huge hello-foot-I'm-mouth moment. "I mean, there's Wynne, and she's a very nice lady, and then there's you. You're a very nice person. Crazy, but nice."

"Crazy?" she repeated, and Alistair wished he could sink into the ground, right about now.

"Uh..."

She stared at him for a moment longer, and then her lips twitched. She snorted, and then let out a sound like a choked-off giggle-laugh. "Oh,  _Maker_ , Alistair, you are so  _awkward_."

He felt a little offended by that. "Oh, yes, very encouraging of you to say that," he muttered, crossing his arms over his chest and resisting the urge to pout. "I feel  _so_  much better now."

Leliana let out an actual laugh this time. "Well, it  _is_  very cute when you do that," she said, eyes sparkling.

 _Well,_  he thought,  _I suppose that since it's coming from a pretty lady, I should feel somewhat happy about it._

"…you think I'm pretty?"

He blinked. Looked at her, found her giving him a startled look.  _Uh…_  "I just said that out loud, didn't I?"

"Yes, I believe you did." She still had that wide-eyed expression on her face, making the brilliant blue of her eyes even more obvious. It really was a pretty sort of light blue, with a bit of grey, rather like a clear sky in winter—only not so cold and distant, except when she was fighting. It was an odd contrast to the bright red hair, but it was a  _nice_  contrast.

Then his brain finally caught up with the fact that he was staring at her and she was staring at him and she was giving him the oddest little half-smile, just on corner of her mouth quirking upwards, the expression in her eyes quizzical. "Uh…" he started eloquently. What  _were_  they talking about? Oh, right. "Uhm, I  _do_  think you are pretty. Because you totally are—not that I mean anything by it," he added hurriedly. "Because you're obviously pretty and everyone with eyes would notice you're pretty…really."

The corner rose higher, at the same time one of her eyebrows rose. "Why, thank you so much," she said, her voice equal parts mocking and pleased. Then she smiled, brilliantly. "If I may say so, you're a very handsome man, Alistair."

He  _really_  didn't want to, but he felt his face turning bright scarlet just the same, even as he smiled crookedly at her. "I try," he said with entirely false modesty. "It's not that I could hold a candle to the Warden, anyhow—one smile from him and I swear all the ladies start swooning. I pity that poor bastard."

She blinked at him, and then laughed—actually laughed—at his weak joke. "Oh, don't worry too much," she said, a teasing tone in her voice. "Our leader can take care of himself, I think. If he could fight off hordes of screeching darkspawn, a few giggling ladies shouldn't be too difficult, yes?"

"Hmm. You have a point there. Although…" Alistair glanced sideways at the (now-silent) tent. "I do wonder…would  _Zevran_  actually allow the ladies to approach the Warden?"

Leliana's smile was full of mischief. "Actually, I think that Zevran himself would be too distracted with women of his own to help the Warden."

"Huh." He considered the strange, almost  _eager_  light in her eyes, and frowned. "I don't get it. Is Zevran even attractive?"

"Well, he  _is_  handsome enough for some, and he can be pretty charming when he puts his mind to it." She paused. "Of course, that's only if he drags his mind out of the gutter long enough to do so."

He laughed at that little barb, and then sobered. "But isn't he a bit…much? The hair, the clothing…rather  _flashy_ , isn't it? Do women go for that sort of thing?"

She giggled. "Where I come from they do, oh yes."

"Huh. Really? I see." She  _sounded_  sincere, but then again, it's Leliana—Alistair sometimes couldn't tell when she was joking and when she was not. He sighed, smiling ruefully. "Well, enough about those two—discussing their relative attractiveness to me is really rather discouraging."

She raised her eyebrows at him. "Jealous, Alistair?"

He widened his eyes in mock horror. "No, of course I'm not jealous of  _those_  two! Two charming, good-looking rakes are  _nothing_  compared to my cute awkwardness," he muttered, rolling his eyes.

"Didn't you just say that discussing them is discouraging?" Leliana asked, smiling beatifically.

"…I just walked right into that, didn't I?"

She didn't say anything. Didn't have to—the widening smile was answer enough.

He winced.  _Awkward. Right._  "Look…" he started, before he hesitated, wondering if it  _really_  was a good idea discussing this with Leliana, who's not only a woman but a dashed  _attractive_  one, and it really was rather embarrassing enough to discuss this with another man.

But then again, Leliana was always a good listener, and that's good enough…at least, he hoped so. He took a deep, fortifying breath, before he spoke, "I know my limitations, all right? Growing up in the chantry never exactly gave me much opportunity to…socialize, as it were, and becoming a Grey Warden only gave me even  _less_  opportunity. Whatever 'skills'—" He brought the first two fingers of each hand up in the air and curled them for emphasis. "—that I do have are woefully underused. And considering that I'm currently part of a ragtag team of misfits that are constantly fighting off darkspawn, bandits and whatever nasty thing that decided to pick on us, it's safe to say that I'm not getting any kind of practice soon."

Leliana had been listening to him, her hand absently scratching the sleeping, snuffling nug behind its ears, her face carrying a rapt expression—one that grew more and more thoughtful with each word. "I see," she said, when Alistair ended his little rant. "Hmm…" She frowned. "Have you thought about going to a brothel, maybe?"

"Going to a—" He broke off, staring at her. "You can't be serious."

"And if I am?" She raised her brow, smiling slightly. "If you're worried about your, erm, lack of experience, a quick trip to a brothel should fix that, no? I believe Denerim has a pretty good one," she mused. She seemed to have not noticed Alistair's jaw dropping. "Maybe the Warden might know what sort of place to go to, a man like him must have at least  _heard_  of a good establishment, even if he never actually visited one. Of course, you'd need his permission to go there, but I suppose as long as you're spending your own money it should be all right, he might even be sympathetic to your condition—"

"Whoa.  _Whoa._  Hold on for just a moment there!" He raised his hands up in the air, horrified. "I can't—I can't just… _rent_  someone and…do  _things!_ " Maker's breath, the  _thought_  alone made him shudder.

She blinked at him. "Why not?" she asked, sounding genuinely confused. "That seems to be the most practical solution, yes? Since you said that you're lacking in opportunity—"

Belatedly he realized what she was thinking. "You thought…oh."  _She thought I was just worried about being a virgin._ He winced. "Uhm, not wanting to be too blunt, but I'd really rather actually  _like_  a woman before I sleep with her."

She blinked again, still looking confused, before her expression changed into…

…there was that odd, weirdly eager light in her eyes again. "Oh, I see now. You're a  _romantic._ "

"…I suppose you could put it like that." He stared at her warily. "…why? Is that a bad thing?"

"Oh,  _no._  Not a bad thing at all." She sighed dreamily. "Yes, yes, I see now. You want to give your heart to a woman before you'd give your body. How  _lovely_."

He was starting to feel just a little bit worried by that  _look_  in her eyes _._  "It would be a lot better if I could actually find a woman to give my heart to. Err, so to speak."

Her eyes were very definitely misty now. "Mmm…maybe once this Blight business is over, I could accompany you for a while, take you to parties and balls and the like. Assuming both of us survive, of course. It shouldn't be hard to pass off as an important dignitary and sneak into such gatherings—failing that, we could always mix amongst the wealthy merchants and traders, perhaps you would find someone suitable there."

He blinked as he finally realized what that mistily-eager look in her eyes meant. "Uh, Leliana, I don't want to sound rude, but I don't think I need a  _matchmaker_ —"

"Don't be  _silly!_ " She smiled brilliantly. "I'd never force a match you wouldn't want. This is  _love_  and  _romance_  we are talking about, yes? I'm just opening the way for you to find your one true love! We do have to prepare, though—"

" _We?_ " he repeated. But Leliana went on chattering, as if she never heard him, "The last thing we want is some kind of cold, cruel woman who'd only pluck your heartstrings until she's had her fun and then leave you with a broken heart. Hmm…we'd have to keep your heritage under wraps, find some way to hide the fact that you're actually half-royal—"

He gaped incredulously as Leliana went on and on, before he closed his eyes and, planting his face in his waiting palms, he let out a moan of despair.

What  _had_  he just walked into?

_~to be continued~_


	29. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'ed; all mistakes are my own.

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 28_

* * *

 

_Bliss._

That was the only word that Zevran found suitable to describe how he felt now, laying on his back with the Warden a hot and heavy weight slumped on his stomach alongside. He had been in more  _exotic_  situations, most certainly, but even his most intense experiences didn't leave him with a half smile on his face…and an unusual sense of peace in his heart.

He'd lost himself in the Warden's embrace.

That had never happened to him before, and because of that it left him with a wariness that even the afterglow couldn't overpower. He would have frowned, but his face was too relaxed and didn't want to—so he frowned in his head and wondered.

Something had changed—he didn't know what had, and he highly doubted he would find out easily, but the human male sprawled beside him had led Zevran down a strange, unknown path, and Zevran's view of an activity that he had been so  _intimately_  acquainted with had, whether he wanted or not, altered.

Sexual satiation he was familiar with, but this…it was that, and yet so much more. The release he'd found was strangely and unsettlingly more sating. So much that it seemed to reach his very soul.

Or so it felt to him.

The Warden chose to stir at that moment, drawing Zevran's thoughts away from his mind and back to his body. The movement was small and oddly weak—the human seemed to be having some difficulty finding the strength to move. Zevran knew the feeling; he had a suspicion that he himself would scarcely find enough energy to lift a finger.

The Warden made a low, rumbling sound deep in his throat, and then moved slowly, propping himself up on his elbows, before he turned his head and looked at Zevran, giving the elf a long assessing gaze. His hair was delightfully tousled, his features still slack and lacking their usual grim determination.

Zevran felt his lips curve into a broad grin. "See?" he said, a little smugly. "I  _knew_  this would happen eventually."

The Warden simply stared at him for another moment, before raising an eyebrow in question.

Zevran chuckled. "I should have warned you right from the moment you refused to kill me." He waggled his eyebrows for emphasis. "It was inevitable."

He got a sharp look in return, and then the Warden uttered a sound that was between a grunt and a humph as the man shifted onto one elbow—the better to look down at Zevran. The expression had sharpened back into his usual, commanding mien, although there was the hint of an amused smile dancing about the firm lips. "You're practically a public menace," the Warden murmured, his voice a low rumble.

"It's true," Zevran said with a semi-wistful sigh. "They used to issue warnings about me at the Antivan border. Ah, the good old days."

The Warden's almost-smile turned into a real one, and he snorted, but if he had any words about that he was keeping them to himself.

Zevran looked at the man—the large body languid and relaxed, a far cry from before they'd gone into the tent—and schooled his expression into one that was a little more serious. "So, then. As the priestess famously said to the handsome actor…" He raised his brows. "What now?"

The Warden's expression was completely inscrutable—the dim light within the tent did not make it any easier to read. A short moment passed—with Zevran giving the Warden a speculative look and receiving that silent stare in return—before the Warden spoke, in a voice that carried no emotional inflection whatsoever, "Was this a one-time thing?"

Zevran blinked. Of all the things he was expecting the Warden to say ('we end this', 'we go on as usual', 'we have our fun until we grow tired of it', and other things like that), he was not expecting a question like this.

But why the question? It didn't matter to Zevran if they quit this here and now, or much later. Why was the Warden asking this—and giving him that careful, studying, soul-searching stare—as if his opinion actually mattered?

Frowning at that, he gave the Warden an arch look. "Allow me to make it simple for you, my Grey Warden. What comes next"—if there is to be even a 'next'—"is entirely up to you." The stare was starting to become highly unnerving, especially with the Warden looming over him like that—Zevran sat up, stretching his arms over his head as he did, sighing as he felt his muscles flex and loosen. But now he was not looking directly at the Warden, which was the point, so he went on, "I was raised to take my pleasures where they could be found, for they do not come very often." He glanced over his shoulder, looked down through the shadowy light into the Warden's eyes. "I shall ask nothing more of you than you are willing to give."

The Warden's eyes held his. "So…easy come, easy go?"

Zevran smirked. "One might look at it that way. Is this so terrible?"

The Warden said nothing, but a ripple of… _something_  passed through the hard body that had so recently joined with Zevran's. He lay there, explicitly male, exuding blatant strength, his chest—that glorious expense that so intrigued Zevran—wide and heavily-muscled, tapering past the deliciously rock-hard abdomen to narrow waist and hips and those long, strong legs. All naked, all displayed for Zevran's eager delectation.

Except…

Zevran's eyes narrowed. Was it his imagination, or had some strange,  _dangerous_  quality, one that Zevran couldn't put a name to, crept in, infused the Warden's body and stance—not quite a threat, but a hint of… _displeasure?_

"Is that what you really want?" The Warden's voice had grown lower; Zevran had not realized just how gravelly it had become. Now it slid through him, an animal growl—and he fought to quell a shiver.

Then he realized just how  _stupid_  he was being—what was there to fear, when this man had tried to kill him before and Zevran had not felt fear then? Doing his best to ignore the odd feeling, he gave the Warden a level look. "You are…" What was the word that Bann Teagan had used, so long ago? "…a  _rake_ , yes? A man who plays with women's hearts and bodies like a dealer with a pack of cards, no? Isn't it typical of your kind to…" Zevran waved a hand. "…keep things in the moment? As I remember, the rules of that sort of game are very simple—a limited liaison, a temporary relationship, one that will ultimately last as long as the parties involved wish, but that will eventually fade, and be no more—"

"One that would end, with no repercussions, no obligation, no implied understanding, no expectations of anything more," the Warden murmured, as if on cue, but there was a bitterness in the words. "Yes, yes, I am well aware of the rules."

Coolly, Zevran raised his brows. "So you play by those rules, no?"

The Warden's gaze was sharp enough to slice bone. "It's precisely the kind of rules—the  _only_  kind of rules—that Wolf plays by."

Zevran did not miss it. 'Wolf'. Not 'me'—a small but significant difference. "And why is it different now?" he asked, confused and not a little irritated. The Warden's entire mood was  _odd_ , and incredibly hard to understand. Zevran was missing  _something_  here, something  _important_ , but  _what?_

The Warden's eyes narrowed, briefly, into razor-sharp slits, before his face suddenly…well, Zevran wouldn't call it 'closed', but it was as if a veil was drawn over it, making the sharp edges hard to see, turning his expression into one of quiet calm.

"...never mind," the Warden murmured. His eyes closed, and then opened, meeting Zevran's; and like his face, the eyes were calm, almost  _too_  calm.

Zevran had scarcely a moment to wonder about  _that_  before they slid down Zevran's body. Slowly, deliberately; a caress, intimate and frankly possessive.

Zevran felt it like a flame over his skin. Suddenly his body itched for a more physical touch than just a gaze.

Slowly, that gaze rose, returned to Zevran's face. There was that dark, hungry look in the Warden's eyes, and the lips were curved into that arrogant, too-knowing smile. "So that was how sex between men is like," the Warden said, as if they'd not had that strange conversation of before. "But I think I haven't quite fully understood the…nuances of it all."

Zevran heard the challenge in the Warden's voice, saw it in the piercing eyes, saw it in the frankly masculine pose of the Warden's body.

Well, he was always up for a little challenge.

He smiled, slowly, deliberately. "Then perhaps I should teach you more," he purred, as he turned and crawled into the Warden's already-waiting arms.

_~to be continued~_


	30. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'ed; all mistakes are my own.

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 29_

* * *

It was hours later before Zevran walked out of the Warden's tent.

Well, almost-walked, anyway, or so it felt like to him. His knees were shaky with a languid tiredness—something he rarely felt. But the Warden was a vigorous, energetic lover, and if he were to be entirely honest it was  _extremely_  difficult to keep up with that stamina.

Zevran smirked to himself as he wobble-walked away from the tent. Perhaps, he thought with some wry amusement, he was simply feeling his age.

"Zevran!"

The lilting call made him look up. Leliana was by the camp-fire, waving at him, with Anlan a snoozing lump at her feet and—

He blinked. Alistair was sprawled out beside Leliana, his head on Leliana's lap, and rather clearly asleep—if the loud snores were any indication.

His brows rose, and he grinned as he approached the fire. "Well!" he exclaimed with mock surprise. "So you've managed to snatch yourself some company for the night, you sly minx."

Leliana giggled and shook her head, raising a finger of her free hand to her mouth in the universal gesture for quiet—the other hand was curved over Alistair's head and idly combing through the short-cropped blond hair. "Shh, he only just fell asleep."

Zevran snorted with laughter as he went to sit down beside her. "And how did this happen?" he asked in a teasing whisper, looking at the open-mouthed, snoring Alistair.

Leliana giggled again. "It's your fault—he was here because you and the Warden kept him awake." She arched an eyebrow at Zevran. "You two were  _really_  loud this time around, you know."

"Really?" His voice was all false innocence. "I'll mention that to the Warden the next time we get together."

"Oh, don't," Leliana said with a laugh. "I don't mind, and honestly it's not  _that_  loud. Alistair just refuses to stop thinking about it, is all. He was about to storm in there moments ago, actually—although that was probably the wine talking."

"I see." He glanced at Alistair. Come to think of it, the other Warden was looking a little red in the face. "So he fell asleep before he could do that?"

"…yes, he did."

The pause was what made him look up at Leliana, and he saw her looking…guilty? Amused? His eyes narrowed. "What did you do?"

"Well…" She shifted—squirmed, more like—before she shrugged. "I don't think you and the Warden should be interrupted, yes? Especially after that, uh,  _incident_  with Oghren and Anlan."

"Don't remind me," Zevran said with a mild shudder. "Sometimes I still see that in my nightmares."

"A naked Oghren is a horrible sight," she said in agreement. "But that's not the point—Alistair was about to barge in again, and I was thinking that you two had enough interruptions, yes? So I, err, convinced him to stay for a drink of wine."

It took a moment before Zevran's mind sorted through those words and realize what wasn't being said. "You drugged him."

She looked horrified. "Drug him? Oh,  _no_ , I wouldn't do that! I just slipped in a little something to help him go to sleep, since he was complaining about the lack of that. A little remedy, is all."

"Which means you drugged him," Zevran repeated, smirking now. "My, my, Leliana…how very  _sneaky_  of you to do so!"

She glared at him, and then sniffed. "It's best for everyone, yes?" she said. "You and Warden deserve your privacy, and Alistair needs his sleep. This seems like a very simple solution."

"Mm-hmm. So, you're a sneak."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"Am not."

"Am too."

"Am—" Her voice cut off, and she stared at him with narrowed eyes. "You're just trying to bait me, aren't you?"

Zevran grinned, waggling his brows. "I may be, I may not be. But that's up to you, yes?"

" _Oohhh!_ " She threw her hands up in the air and rolled her eyes skywards. "Maker's breath, you…oh, you're impossible."

With a chuckle, Zevran dropped the subject with an inclination of his head—which Leliana acknowledged, with a put-upon sniff and rather resolute staring at the fire.

A dismissal he accepted, and almost immediately his mind turned inward, and towards his memories about the little romp he had only moments ago.

The Warden had…surprised him. Thrown him, more like—not just off-balance but into some strange, unknown landscape where he wasn't entirely sure which way was normal, which way was  _safe._

He'd started this night sure he was in control, that he had the reins of their little affair—that's how he thought of it—firmly in his grasp. Now he wasn't so sure that was true.

Not after that his questioning the Warden about their involvement—not after what had followed that questioning.

He didn't understand what went  _wrong_ , even now.  _Something_  he said had…riled the Warden, woke something in the man that had—Zevran suspected—been constantly lurking behind a civilized veneer. Not temper—it wasn't even close. More like a violent, ruthlessly possessive side that had been uncovered and unleashed by Zevran's casual question.

Maker's breath, the raw passion he'd inadvertently stirred up had been  _frightening._  Exciting, oh yes, but still frightening. The Warden had asked to learn about nuances—instead Zevran found himself taunted, teased, incited into giving  _more_ , and when Zevran gave the Warden took it, twisted it, and returned it tenfold.

And Zevran enjoyed every bit of it.

His head was still spinning—not surprising, given what he had just experienced. Zevran had not encountered anyone capable of meeting his sexual expertise. The Warden not only met him, but  _matched_  him, and had risen to every challenge, every blatantly sexual demand Zevran had made with a fierce enthusiasm that left him whirling.

And it left its marks on Zevran's body—he doubted the numerous bite marks he'd picked up so recently would fade any time soon, and the ache in his wrists promised to turn into a lovely set of bruises by morning.

Not that the Warden had walked away unscathed either. He was sure the Warden sported almost as many marks as he did—and several sets of long, deep scratches over the powerful, broad back as well.

He winced inwardly. The scratches were deep enough to draw blood—the Warden had seemed amused by that, even as Zevran had been stunned by that evidence of his loss of control. In all the years, Zevran had never—

A groan startled him out of his thoughts. Looking up, he saw Leliana glance down, to where Alistair was tossing his head in his sleep, a frown marring his features. Anlan had awoken with the groan—whining, the dog pressed its nose to Alistair's hand.

"Alistair?" Leliana asked, her hand laying on his shoulder. "Wha—?"

Alistair suddenly gave a shout, and sat up, his eyes wide and round with fear and his mouth open in a soundless scream. For a moment there was only silence—except for the harsh breathing sounds from Alistair—as Leliana and Zevran stared at the blond man with stunned shock.

"Alistair!"

The roar made the three of them jump. Zevran turned, just in time to see the Warden charge out of the tent, wearing his tunic and breeches and his greatsword in hand. The Warden's face was pale, the eyes almost as round as Alistair's. Anlan scrambled to his feet, barking as he spotted his master.

"You're awake!" Alistair blurted out. He clambered upright and leapt to his feet, his eyes still too-wide and fixed on the Warden. "Did you…did you feel it too?"

_Feel what?_

Apparently the sudden question made sense to the Warden; his face tightened, and he nodded, brusquely.

Alistair made a choking sound. "It was like the archdemon saw us!" he gasped. "Saw us! What does that  _mean?_ "

The Warden shook his head— _I know no more than you do_ , his face seemed to say.

Alistair grimaced at that. "I think—"

The sound of crunching gravel stopped his words mid-sentence.

All of them went very still.

"…wait!" Alistair whispered. "Did you hear that?"

The Warden nodded, once, already raising his broadsword. Beside him, Anlan growled, his ears flattening back.

Leliana had an arrow notched in her bow—she was on her feet, her eyes casting around, looking for any movement.

Zevran swore—he was unarmed, and unarmoured, but he shifted, tensing, his eyes straining for any other sound.

…nothing.

Alistair looked around, and then frowned. "That's odd…I sense nothing," he muttered, wincing as he pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead. "Maker, my head feels fuzz—"

Zevran saw the glint of a blade—the only warning they had.

"Look out!" Leliana shouted.

Alistair twisted—a moment too late. Something large and dark lunged from the shadows behind him, and a twisted claw swung out, stabbing cleaning through the side of his torso.

The blond man froze, his face a mask of shock, as the bladed claw twisted and pulled out, sending blood splattering over the ground. His hand groped blindly for the hole in his side, attempting to stop the bleeding even as he fell onto his knees.

The rictus grin of the creature behind Alistair widened as it raised its hand for the final blow.

The twang of a bowstring, and a fiery arrow buried itself in the creature's eye.

The piercing shriek very nearly shattered Zevran's ears.

Chaos. More shrieks, more shadows, as more of the creatures leapt out of the darkness and into the light of the camp-fire. Twisted, hunched monstrosities on long, spindly legs bounded towards them, shrieking and howling, teeth and claws flashing.

The Warden  _moved._

Zevran had always wondered how fast the Warden was if he did not wear that cumbersome plate he was so fond of in combat. Now he saw that the Warden was  _fast_ , almost inhumanly so. He wielded the greatsword in his hand like it weighed nothing—although the resounding  _crack_  as the blade hit and shattered bone and skulls dispelled that illusion quickly. The massive blade swung in a wide arc, cutting a swath of pain and blood as it sliced through darkspawn flesh.

One of them spotted Zevran—howling, it lunged for him, arms swinging in wild slashes. He swore as he dove sideways, away from the lethal strikes, his hand digging into the ground as he scrambled to his feet.

The creature hissed as its claws sliced ineffectually at air, already turning towards him. His fist clenched. Whirling, he flung his hand out, and the darkspawn shrieked as sand and grit stung its eyes.

An arrow pierced through its neck, cutting the shriek off.

"Zevran!" Leliana shouted, already letting loose another arrow into another creature's eye. Her hand reached behind her, pulled out the dagger strapped to her belt. " _Catch!_ "

The dagger whirled towards him—Zevran caught it out of the air, just as another of the creatures lunged at him. "Now this is more like it," he shouted, laughing as he turned, swiping the blade across the creature's throat before plunging it into its tainted heart.

"Get to Alistair!" the Warden ordered, even as he cut an attacking darkspawn in half. "Guard him, hurry!"

Zevran turned, looked—Alistair was lying still on the ground, unmoving, a pool of blood spreading out beneath him. Zevran dodged, parried, stabbing and slashing his way to Alistair's side.

One of the creatures leapt down, claws swinging in an attempt to finish the blond Warden off. Zevran's dagger flashed, hamstringing the creature before it could reach Alistair. Kicking the crippled creature aside, he ran to Alistair and knelt down beside him, fingers of his free hand already pressing against the blond man's throat for a pulse.

Alistair's eyes were closed, his face white as ash—only his harsh breathing and the wildly fluttering pulse beneath Zevran's fingertips showed he was still living.

There was a loud, distinctly drunken shout, and suddenly Oghren charged into their midst, his axe swinging wildly.

"Starting the party without ol' Oghren, eh?" he roared as he cleaved a darkspawn head in two. "Ha! Let's see what your innards look like!"

 _At least Oghren's wearing pants this time,_  Zevran thought, mildly amused by it all. Behind the howling dwarf, Zevran saw Sten advance, his face as implacable as a mountain avalanche as the qunari's sword struck down the stray darkspawn.

They were at the edge of the fight—the bulk of the darkspawn had focused on the Warden, swarming over him. Anlan was dancing about the Warden, taking down and ripping apart what darkspawn he could reach, but the creatures were relentless in pursuit of their target. "Help him!" Zevran shouted to Oghren and Sten, just as another darkspawn lunged at him—swearing colorfully, he swung his dagger, slashing the monster across its face.

A giant blast of stone and rock, glowing green with enchantment, flew past Zevran and struck the darkspawn squarely in its torso—Zevran heard the spine snap over the sound of the impact.

Hands still glowing with magic, Wynne ran towards him. "Is anyone hurt?" she asked, panting lightly.

Wordlessly, Zevran stepped back, letting Wynne kneel beside Alistair—the old mage's face tightened when she saw the blood. "Stand back," she ordered, her hands already moving to hover above the wounded flesh. "Give me space to work."

Zevran shifted, but did not—dared not—shift far. He knew Wynne would need all her concentration on healing such a severe wound; she would not be able to defend herself if they were attacked again.

Although that seemed unlikely. Somehow the darkspawn had shifted all of their focus onto the Warden—they were swarming around him, and even the attacks from the others refused to deter them. He could see glimpses of the Warden's blood-splattered face between the dark bodies, and it was harsh, grim with fierce determination…but growing ever paler with each cutting blow, each defensive move against slashing claws.

Zevran's heart pounded. No, at this rate, it would not take long before the Warden would tire, and fall.

His hand tightened on his dagger. A voice in his mind screamed at him to  _help the Warden_  but he forcibly pushed it back—he was ordered to defend Alistair and he  _would_ , Maker help him.

He glanced at Wynne, at the wound in Alistair's side. It wasn't bleeding so profusely now, but it was still a large, gaping gash and did not look to be mending.

He looked up. The Warden was clearing panting now, and there was a glint of desperation in his eyes, in his increasingly wild swings, and there were still too many darkspawn and he needed  _help_...

Zevran bit his lip until he could taste blood. Disobey the Warden and leave both Wynne and Alistair defenseless, or stay and let the Warden be killed?

He risked a glance at Alistair—still unconscious and unmoving—and at Wynne—her face hard with pure concentration and her hands already shaking with effort.

A part of him keened as he squeezed his eyes shut, gritted his teeth and  _stayed._  No, he couldn't leave. Even if he disobeyed, the Warden would be devastated if his actions would cause the deaths of those he was ordered to protect. But the Warden was in  _danger_  and  _he could do nothing—_

"Warden!"

The shout made Zevran open his eyes. He saw the Warden whirl towards the voice, his expression full of surprise—

Only then did Zevran realize that the air was crackling heavily with magic.

" _Get down!_ "

The Warden's eyes widened, and he ducked—just moments before there was a loud, eardrum-splitting  _crack_  and a blinding flash lit the night, so bright that Zevran had to turn away and shield his eyes.

A blazing white-hot bolt of lighting snaked across the air, a violent net of power and magic full of terrible purpose that ensnared and trapped the darkspawn bodies clustered so close. The shrieks of pain were barely heard above the snapping crackle of electricity as lightning coiled, twisted, and then ripped apart flesh and bone and darkspawn blood with devastating violence, before exploding in a thunderous roar that sent the others sprawling down to the ground.

The night fell dark and silent.

Leaving the entire party shaken and stunned amongst a sea of blood and ash and burnt flesh, with the Warden at the centre of it all.

The Warden blinked rapidly, looking dazed—and likely blinded—before those eyes focused on something beyond Zevran.

He turned, and found himself looking at brilliant golden eyes that still glowed with magical power.

Morrigan snorted, dusting her hands together and creating a sparkling shower of lingering magic as she shook her head. "'Tis  _too_  easy."

Stunned silence greeted her arrogant statement as every eye (except Wynne and Alistair, for obvious reasons) focused on her.

Zevran broke that silence first, laughing and shaking his head. "You, my dear," he said with a smirk and a bow, "are  _ridiculously_  awesome."

_~to be continued~_


	31. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'ed; all mistakes are my own.

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 30_

* * *

 

Zevran's quip broke the stunned spell that had held the party—people began moving, groaning from injuries and muttering curses at the sudden attack.

Except for the Warden; he was still standing amidst the darkspawn corpses, his greatsword hanging forgotten by his side, staring at Morrigan with an incredulous expression.

Morrigan regarded this with ill-concealed amusement. "Why, no thanks, no words of gratitude?" she remarked, tsking. "Or have the darkspawn managed to cut out your tongue after all?"

The Warden blinked, before his eyes closed, and he took in a deep breath—

"Maker's  _breath_ , woman! What were you  _thinking?_   _You could have killed me!_ "

The roar was loud enough to make  _everyone_ jump—except for Morrigan (who only looked even more amused) and Alistair (for obvious reasons). Even  _Sten_  twitched, shooting a glare at the Warden before turning away and walking off with a dark-sounding mutter.

"I did tell you to get down, did I not?" Morrigan pointed out. "You were already in danger of being killed—what I did saved you from a certain death. 'Tis a minor risk, really, that you might be caught in the blast."

The colorful litany of words that burst out of the Warden were really rather impressive—Zevran even caught a few Antivan words here and there—and it was a while before the Warden exclaimed, "And where in the name of the Maker's bleeding blue balls were you? You certainly took your time before you almost got me  _killed!_ "

"Oh, tsk-tsk, and you think you were the only one attacked?" she snorted. "I came across a pack of these—" She nudged a claw-tipped darkspawn limb with her foot. "—while I was out hunting."

"You were hun—no," the Warden muttered, raising a hand. "No, wait, I don't think I want to know what you were hunting, or even  _how_  you were hunting." He gave her a pointed glare. "You and I are going to have a little talk in the morning about 'taking risks'."

Morrigan replied to this with a roll of her eyes, but the Warden was already going to Wynne's side, his expression still harsh.

"How is he?" the Warden asked, kneeling down and looking at the wound. It was finally sealing closed, the redness of raw flesh slowly covered by pale pink skin.

"He will live," Wynne murmured. A bead of sweat trailed down the side of her face, and her hands were truly shaking now. "He will need a lot of rest but he is still—"

The body beneath her hands twitched. Alistair's face frowned, and his eyelids fluttered, before snapping open suddenly.

"Alistair!" The Warden's face melted with relief. "Alistair, are you awake?"

"Nngghh…" Alistair groaned, squeezing his eyes. " _Maker_ , what just happened? Wait…dreams, darkspawn—" His eyes snapped open and he sat up.

Or rather, tried to sit up. His eyes widened further and his face went grey, before he fell back down with a yelp. "Injured!" he cried out. "As in, me! As in,  _ow!_ "

"Stay  _down_ ," the Warden said firmly, his hand pressing down on Alistair's shoulder. "You're injured, yes, and Wynne is healing you as we speak."

"Maker's breath," Alistair muttered. His eyes cracked open slightly to peer at the Warden. "What about the darkspawn?"

"Dead before you woke up," the Warden said, with a flashing grin.

"Oh. Good." Alistair raised one hand in an attempt to poke at his wound—which Wynne batted away almost absently, her focus still on the healing. Hand flopping back down with a wince, Alistair turned his head towards the Warden. "Did you…sense those things?"

The Warden nodded, a frown starting to crease his brow. "A little bit. I  _knew_  they were nearby, I just didn't realize they were  _that_  close to camp." He seemed to study Alistair's face. "Why? Is there something important about this?"

"I didn't sense them."

"…what?"

"I didn't sense them," Alistair repeated. "I know I should have, but I didn't."

"Or couldn't," the Warden murmured, his eyes narrowing. "So how…?"

"I don't know." Alistair made a face. "The only possible reason I could have missed that many darkspawn—even stealthy darkspawn—was if I had been very tired or very drunk." He frowned. "Or both; and I was not."

The Warden blinked at this, his face slowly blanking. "If I remember correctly," he said slowly, "you mentioned your head was 'fuzzy', right before the attack."

"I did, didn't I?" Alistair frowned. "Come to think of it, I still feel a bit of that—although that could be the blood loss and not—"

"I'm sorry!"

The exclamation made both Grey Wardens whip their heads around (making Alistair yelp with the sudden movement) to look at Leliana.

She stood nearby, her hands pressed to her mouth, her eyes round over her fingers.

The Warden raised a brow at her. "What  _exactly_ are you sorry for?"

"It's my fault!" She gave Alistair a stricken glance. "I just…I gave you a little something in your wine to make you fall asleep."

A moment of stunned silence greeted her words.

Zevran saw the Warden's face turn to ice, his eyes narrowing into slits. "I don't think I like the sound of that, Leliana," the Warden said softly, coldly. "Just what  _exactly_  did you put into his drink?"

"…laudanum," she said in a quiet mumble, before quickly adding, "But it was just a tiny dose! I didn't think—"

"Maybe you should start thinking a little more," the Warden snapped, his face hardening. "Maker's breath, Leliana,  _laudanum?_  Did you even  _realize_  just how  _stupid_  that was?"

Leliana's eyes shone with unshed tears as she lowered her gaze and head. "I…yes."

The Warden's lips thinned as he shook his head. "Damn it, Leliana, why?"

She winced, her gaze flicking to a silent, stricken-looking Alistair before dropping again. "He was about to barge into your tent," she said quietly. "I didn't think it was polite for him to do so, and I didn't think you or Zevran would appreciate being…uh, interrupted again, but he was much bigger and stronger and I didn't know how to stop him so…" She shrugged slightly, her voice trailing off.

The Warden stared at her for a long moment, before he sighed, eyes closing as he rubbed his hand over his face. "Don't do it again."

"Yes, Warden," Leliana said in a small voice.

The Warden didn't reply, merely nodded in acknowledgement before he looked at Alistair—who was giving Leliana a very angry glare. "Alistair?"

"Yes?" Alistair gritted out, still giving Leliana that hard look.

"If you have a problem with my private relationships, I'd kindly appreciate it if you choose to have a quiet word, rather than attempting to interrupt me when I'm busy."

Zevran stifled a laugh as Alistair's face turned into something that was equal parts embarrassment and horror. "Oh, I wasn't—I didn't mean—I don't have a problem, really, I just—"

"Tried to barge into my tent without so much as a by-your-leave?"

The Warden's voice was mild—his expression was anything but.

Alistair seemed to shrink under that cool stare. "Okay, yes, maybe I was a bit hasty over there…"

"Warden."

The quiet voice drew the Warden's attention. He turned, just as Wynne sat back on her heels, wiping her face with the sleeve of her robe. "It's done," Wynne murmured, her voice weary.

Zevran glanced at Alistair's belly. The pale pink of newly-formed skin now covered where the wound had once been, with not a hint of scar tissue. He whistled quietly under his breath, like so many times before impressed by Wynne's skill—the elder mage was truly a remarkable healer, to have mended such a grievous wound so well.

The Warden went to Wynne's side, one hand sliding under her arm, his expression one of concern. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, I am, thank you," she said, laughing a little tiredly. "Oh, my goodness, I believe this old body can't take this much excitement as it had so many years ago."

The Warden smiled, a little tightly. "That 'old body' is still a sprightly one, I'll bet."

"I'd rather you don't," Wynne said. She allowed the Warden to help her to her feet, swaying slightly as she stood. "If you don't mind, my dear, would you kindly accompany to my tent? I don't feel all that safe, after that sudden ambush."

Zevran raised a brow at her words.  _You don't feel safe because of the ambush, or because you've worn yourself out?_

The Warden's expression clearly showed that he was thinking the same as Zevran—although, like Zevran, he didn't voice it. "As the lady desires," he said, bowing lightly over Wynne's hand, his voice full of gallant charm.

Wynne chuckled softly, her hand curving into the crook of the Warden's offered arm. "Careful, young man, or I might think you are interested in me."

"You?" The Warden's eyes widened with artful innocence as he started to lead her away. "You're an absolute paragon of womanly virtue—nay, I'd say you are a  _goddess_. A mere mortal man such as I am quite clearly undeserving of your attention."

"Someone's piling it on a little thickly," Zevran murmured under his breath, watching with amusement as Wynne lightly slapped the Warden's arm.

Well, it seems that everything was taken care of. Shrugging, he glanced at the dagger still in his hand, looked around—

Leliana was nowhere to be seen.

And oddly enough, so was Alistair.

Frowning, he scanned the camp, but the bard and the blond were, indeed, gone.

_Hmm. Likely already returned to their tents to recuperate._

Shrugging again, he idly tossed the dagger into the air, sending it spinning before snatching it by the handle again. He'd return it to its owner later.

He felt the skin at the back of his neck prickle, right before a familiar voice whispered in his ear, "I don't think I've thanked you yet."

Zevran tilted his head back, looking up at the Warden's face. "That was quick," he said.

"Wynne's tent wasn't far." The grin flashed briefly. "Also, she sort of fainted midway, so I carried her the rest of the way back."

 _Ah._  Zevran frowned as he turned to face the Warden fully. "Will she be fine?"

The Warden snorted. "Yes, but she was pushing it. Frankly, if I had any say in the matter, I'd cart her back to the Circle tower and make her stay there. As it is…" The Warden shrugged and smiled a bit helplessly. "I'm not going to risk annoying the best healer in this little party. Not to mention that she'd just keep nagging me all the way back to the Circle until my ears start to bleed—although I've endured worse."

"You mean there are people who nag more than  _Wynne_?"

"Yes. My mother was one." Something  _unhappy_  flashed in the Warden's eyes, and then he grinned, his hand reaching up to lightly grasp Zevran's chin between thumb and forefinger. "As I was saying…I haven't thanked you yet so…" He bent his head, pressed a kiss to Zevran's cheek. "Thank you."

Zevran blinked. Ridiculously, he felt his face heat up.  _It wasn't even an explicit kiss._

Suddenly aware of the Warden's nearness, he stepped back slightly, clearing his throat as he did. "I see…what for?"

"For protecting the people I care about." The Warden shrugged, his lips curving. "Granted, I ordered you to, but still, thank you."

There were many times that Zevran was supremely grateful for his dark skin—the color meant that blushes were easy to hide, especially in dim light. At that moment he felt like even the tips of his ears were steaming, and he  _really_  didn't want the Warden to know that. Laughing softly, he gave the Warden his most imprudent grin. "Well, it wouldn't do well for me to go against the orders of my master, yes? It would be most unprofessional."

The Warden snorted at that, shaking his head. "You should go get some sleep. We're moving out early—I don't think staying in this area is very safe." He glanced down at his body—splattered with black blood and bits of charred flesh—and grimaced. "Maker's breath, I'm  _filthy._  I need a bath."

Zevran turned that little remark over his mind, considered the possibilities. Smiled. "Hmm…perhaps you might need a little help on that. I'm sure all that fighting has left you…weary, no?"

The Warden grinned at that. "An interesting offer." He sighed. "And as appealing as your...help sounds, I'd rather not get any darkspawn blood on you—being poisonous and all that."

Zevran blinked. Sighed and grimaced. The Warden had a point. "Oh, well, some other time."

"Some other time," the Warden said in agreement. "Go back to the tent. I'll join you later."

"Oh? Join me? In what sort of way?"

" _Zevran._ "

"I know, I know." Laughing at the sharp look the Warden gave him, he waved a hand. "Go on. I'll see you later."

"Impertinent elf," the Warden muttered, turning away and heading off into the direction of the nearest stream. "You really are incorrigible."

"I try my best," Zevran said, and then ran before the Warden could say anything about that.

_~to be continued~_


	32. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my beta **Scarylady1**. Your advice and patience are much appreciated.

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 31_

* * *

 

Zevran was starting to frown when he was almost at the Warden's tent; by the time he had slipped inside, he was openly scowling.

_What in the Maker's name just happened?_

Muttering curses to himself, he set the dagger aside and then crawled into the bed of pelts, pulling the blanket over him as he did.

Now that the battle haze had cleared, he found himself mentally walking backwards to what had happened in the previous skirmish.

He'd stayed back to protect Wynne and Alistair, at the Warden's orders, even though the Warden was in danger.

He'd stayed back to protect two people who hadn't shown the slightest inclination to defend him in any way, when the man who was his only  _real_  protection against the Crows was in clear danger of dying.

 _Why?_  Because he knew the Warden cared about Wynne and Alistair, and he didn't want to hurt the Warden by leaving them to be killed.

But why would that matter?

Because of his oath to serve the man?

Or, because he actually gave a damn about how the Warden would feel?

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

He snarled aloud at that. It wasn't as if he was concerned for the Warden's feelings. How could the Warden's feelings even  _matter?_  All that he had learned, that he had been trained in, told him that what you cared did not matter; that the only thing he should even  _care_  about was his own life, his own safety.

Risking the Warden's death for the sake of that man's emotions was  _not_  the way to preserve his own life in the long run.

_Clearly_ _,_ _dallying with the Warden had messed with your own head, Zevran._

_But if you show that you're trustworthy,_ _won't_ _that make the Warden more likely to protect you when the inevitable shows up?_

_That's even assuming that the Warden_ _will_ _protect you in the first place._

_The Warden gave his word, and he_ _will_ _keep it. I know this._

_Since when have you been so trusting of anyone, Zevran?_

"Oh, shut up," he muttered to the voices in his head, his face buried in the furs. "It doesn't matter."

"What doesn't matter?"

He startled, pushing himself off the bed to look back over his shoulder.

The Warden was half-inside the tent, studying Zevran with a quizzical expression.

_Oh, wonderful._

"Oh, this and that," Zevran said flippantly, summoning his most casual grin. "Personally I'm simply glad that the attack is over, and we are all alive."

The Warden made a noncommittal grunt as he stepped into the tent. His hair was damp, and his skin glistened with lingering moisture. Zevran watched as an errant bead dripped off the tip of a damp lock of hair to trickle, unheeded, down along the strong jaw and elegant throat, all the way down the broad chest.

An erotic sight, to be sure, but there was something… odd about the way the Warden held himself, his face distant and shuttered. Odd enough that Zevran couldn't even find lust, only an ever-growing concern.

Frowning, he rolled over, sitting up fully. "What is wrong?"

"…nothing."

 _Liar._  He watched with narrowed eyes as the Warden shifted towards the bed, moving as if every movement hurt.

No unbroken skin. No blood. No— thank the Maker —signs of poisoning. But no  _visible_  marks did not mean that a body was not damaged.

"You should see Wynne later."

"I'm not injured."

"You're  _moving_  as if you are."

The Warden grimaced as he flopped down on his bed, burying his face in the furs. "It's nothing, Zevran."

"War—"

" _Nothing._ " The Warden lifted his head up enough to glare at Zevran. "I'm not injured, I don't need to see Wynne, and you're a damned busybody. Go to sleep already."

Zevran raised his brows, but the Warden had already buried his face back in the furs. "Why, my dear Warden, feeling a little moody?"

The Warden sat up suddenly, slamming his hands on the bed. "Look, Zevran," he snarled, "I don't know how well you value life, being an assassin and everything, but I nearly lost Alistair, and Wynne risked her life trying to save him. If Morrigan had not come along and dragged our sorry arses out of that darkspawn mess, both of them, and everyone else, would have ended up dead, and it was my fault for not sensing the darkspawn earlier. So, yes, I'm feeling a little moody, but I think I'm perfectly  _justified_."

Zevran stared back at the Warden for a long moment… before snorting. "Oh, so this is where the self-flagellation comes in, is it?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Zevran had to smile a little at the outraged expression on the Warden's face. The human really was too easy to rile. "I'm quite sure all of them joined you knowing that they could very well die the next hour. You are a dangerous man to be allied with, my dear, and they knew it." Zevran shrugged. "We are in the middle of a war against darkspawn, it's perfectly all right to encounter a few losses here and there, so don't—"

"It's  _not_  all right!"

The roar made Zevran's ears ring, and abruptly he was enfolded in a tight hug. Heavy arms wrapped around him, pulling him close to a warm body; the Warden's face pressed against his neck.

Zevran could feel the Warden trembling, and he knew it wasn't from the chill in the air.

"It's not all right," the Warden said again, his voice a harsh whisper. "All of you are my people, my companions, my  _friends_. I can't lose any of you. I won't allow it. I don't…" The arms tightened almost painfully. "I've lost too much already, Zevran; I don't think I can stand losing any more people that are important to me. Not Alistair, not Wynne, not you."

The Warden's voice choked with the last few words.

Disbelieving his ears, Zevran held the Warden's shoulders and pulled back. The Warden's head rose, his eyes clear and earnest… and suspiciously wet-looking.

"Me?" Zevran said. "What do I have to do with Wynne and Alistair?"

The Warden blinked, and the long lashes clung damply as they fluttered. He smirked, raising an eyebrow. "You mean I can't have favorites in my group?"

"That—" Zevran frowned, shaking his head. "No. But… I'm not Wynne or Alistair."

"No, you're not."

The Warden's growing amusement (and did Zevran see a hint of  _smugness_ in his smile?) was starting to irritate Zevran. "Perhaps the darkspawn have hit you too hard on the head," he snapped. "Wynne is your healer, Alistair the only other Grey Warden. I am only a hired assassin, sworn into your service. What kind of game are you playing by placing me in the same level of importance as—?"

A finger pressed against his lips, halting his words. The Warden grinned, there was a definite smugness in that grin, before he shook his head. "Don't think too much about it," the Warden said. One eye closed in a deliberate wink. "Just accept that I am a bit… selfish." The finger dropped away, only to be replaced by soft lips.

Lips that dragged Zevran into a dizzying, drugging kiss.

Not in a fury of desire, as it had been between them before, all fire and unleashed passion. The Warden kissed with a slow, measured intent; unhurried, almost languid, a claiming that lacked the heated urgency that had marked their previous encounters. Yet, somehow, it was strangely erotic, more so than ever before. It sent Zevran's senses reeling, whirling along the edge of pleasurable delight.

He was dimly aware of his body growing soft, even as another part of it hardened. The Warden shifted, leaning over him, and making him fall back, until he was lying against the furs with his hands lightly, gently, pinned beside his head, the Warden still feeding him those soft, unhurried kisses.

Just as Zevran felt that the kisses were turning into  _not-enough_ , the Warden lifted his head, releasing Zevran's lips with a light flick of his tongue. They were both breathing hard, their breaths mingling in the mere inches that separated their mouths.

The Warden's eyes were dark with desire; alight with something that Zevran couldn't name.

Zevran's own eyes, heavy-lidded and languid, narrowed. "What aren't you telling me?"

The Warden smiled, slowly. "Like I said, don't think too much." He was laughing softly as he leaned down, and said in a whispered breath against Zevran's mouth. "You'll find out soon enough."

Then their lips met again, and Zevran forgot to think for a very long while.

_~to be continued~_


	33. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Many thanks to my grammar fairy/editor, **Scarylady1**. Your advice and patience are much appreciated._

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 32_

* * *

Ferelden was cold and harsh. In the middle of the winter, and up in the mountains, it was colder and harsher still.

Zevran felt the chill, even though he was swathed in a heavy fur-lined cloak that was far too big for him.

Far too big or not, he was grateful for it; and believed he would be frozen blue without it. Halfway up the mountain to Haven, the Warden had stopped abruptly and turned, removing his cloak as he did so. He had deftly unfastened Zevran's plain, woollen cloak and draped his own, much heavier, garment around his lover.

"Sun-spoilt Antivan," the Warden had muttered as he fastened the cloak shut, while Zevran had stared in mute shock. "It's not even  _that_  cold."

He had blinked up at the Warden, and then frowned. "This isn't really necess—"

"Shut up and wear it. If some vital part of you decides to shrivel up and fall off, I'll be royally pissed."

Zevran had glared at the Warden, but the damned man had ignored that and walked off. This left him stuck wearing the Warden's cloak, and he was not so foolish that he would throw away such a comfortable garment.

He growled under his breath, trying to puzzle out the reason for the Warden to give up the cloak so easily. With so much snow and ice around them, the Warden  _had_  to be cold, even if he boasted about being used to the cold weather up on the northern coast of Ferelden. A part of Zevran was happy to take the extra warmth that the cloak offered; another part was gritting its teeth, and grumbling about being fussed over like some delicate flower.

He snorted. He still couldn't figure out the puzzling behaviour, and it wasn't the first time either; ever since that night the darkspawn attacked, the Warden had been behaving rather... strangely around Zevran.

Oh, it wasn't very obvious, but Zevran was sure that the Warden's attitude had changed somehow; he just couldn't put his finger on it. Something about the way that the Warden seemed to be constantly hovering nearby, always watching him, always asking after his well-being, prickled at Zevran's instincts. It was weird, it was unnerving, and Zevran couldn't help but feel like he was being hunted.

Leliana, ever the sharp-eyed observer of their party, had remarked that the Warden was guarding Zevran like a sheepdog guards a favourite lamb.

An unflattering comparison – he did not relish being compared to as helpless an animal as a lamb –but it was an apt one, considering the circumstances.

As for their affair... The Warden had proved to be an eager, enthusiastic lover, ready to accept whatever suggestion Zevran came up with, and helpfully making suggestions of his own. But, even during their lovemaking, the Warden was watchful, careful; and he seemed oddly determined to pleasure Zevran to the point of ecstasy each time they went to bed.

Not that Zevran was ungrateful for the attention, in fact, he relished it wholeheartedly, but that wasn't all; there were times when the Warden would look at him, and Zevran would see a strange look within those sharp eyes... a look of lingering,  _wanting_.

A look that, if it had come from a different person, would have scared Zevran to the bone. But when it came from the Warden it only made him feel needed,  _treasured_ , and he found himself craving for those rare times that the Warden's emotional shields dropped in the heat of passion, and he would catch a glimpse of that look in those eyes.

Then there were the nights that the Warden did not seem to be in the mood for sex, and during those nights they stayed up and talked. Well, more like the Warden asked, and Zevran answered. The Warden had a lot of questions, and he seemed genuinely interested in what Zevran had to say; a novel thing, since Zevran's past lovers had never been so... Curious? Attentive?

Whatever it was, Zevran found himself speaking easily with the Warden, telling him about his life back in Antiva, his work as a Crow, and even opening up about personal things such as his likes and dislikes, his thoughts and opinions. Always the Warden had simply listened to him, quiet - except for a few choice remarks - and completely non-judgemental, even when Zevran talked about some of the more... unpleasant things he had done in his work.

It was unusual of Zevran to find himself so comfortably willing to share his thoughts. He had always been careful about keeping them to himself, for his own safety; assassins that shared too many secrets did not live very long. Yet when he spoke with the Warden he felt himself willingly, even eagerly, giving up things that he would not even tell to another Crow.

That willingness to share his thoughts had baffled him, but the Warden's interest in those thoughts had baffled him even more. Why the interest and attention? Surely the Warden had better things to ask about than Zevran's past, which had no real effect on their quest. He was only a hired hand, someone who'd joined the Warden for his own safety. There was no reason to take such a... personal… interest in a hireling, was there?

He glared at the back of the Warden, who was striding up ahead with long, tireless legs alongside Alistair and speaking quietly to the blond man. The Warden was a puzzle in too many ways, and frankly Zevran wasn't sure if that was a good thing for him.

"Zevran, I wish to speak with you."

The quiet words brought Zevran out of his thoughts, made him glance over his shoulder to look at Wynne. "Ah, my dear Wynne," he said with a grin. "Are you finally willing to speak of your bosom?"

She gave him that familiar glare of exasperation. "No, I do not wish to talk about my bosom," she sighed. "What I wish to speak to you about concerns your relationship with the Warden."

He felt his eyebrows rise.  _Well, now._  "I wasn't aware that there is a relationship to speak of."

The look she gave him was razor sharp. "Do not take me for an old fool, Zevran. I have eyes, and I have ears. It has not escaped my notice that the two of you have grown... close."

He gave her a wicked grin. "Have you been spying on us?" He clucked his tongue in mock disapproval. "I wouldn't have taken you for a voyeur, my dear."

"That is not the point, and I am not your dear," she snapped, before visibly reining in her temper. "What I wish to know is your intentions, Zevran. You are a hired killer, and one hired by Teryn Loghain, no less. You met the Warden with the intention to kill him."

"Which I failed at, and now I'm sworn to the Warden's service. And we all know about that, don't we?" He raised a brow at her. "Let us not beat about the bush. What exactly do you wish to know?"

Her eyes narrowed. "My concern is that you are not pursuing the Warden with sincerity."

 _Ah_. He felt his smile grow cold. "You are afraid that I will one day turn on him and kill him, then? If that were the case, I would have done so a long time ago."

"Maybe, but regardless, I do not trust your intentions. For all we know you are simply waiting for an opportunity to attack him and get away unscathed."

"And destroy my only protection against the Crows?" he said with a laugh. "The Crows are not very forgiving of failure, Wynne and, even if I were to kill the Warden now, I doubt that they would welcome me with open arms after my spectacular failure. I assure you, Wynne, that I am perfectly happy where I am."

"For now, perhaps, but what if things were different?" She gave him a sharp look. "What if a day comes when your Crows offer to forgive you, with the condition that you kill the Warden?"

He blinked. "...I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me. If you are no longer in danger of being hunted by your fellow assassins, would you turn on the Warden to regain their favour?"

He stared at her, his tongue tied by thoughts that had never entered his head.  _To be accepted by the Crows again, in return for killing the Warden, erasing his past failure..._

Wynne's eyes turned icy as Zevran stayed silent. "I see. So, you will always remain a danger, then." She sighed. "I do not understand what the Warden sees in you, but you are handsome, and more than charming enough. The Warden is a young man, a good man, and perhaps that youth and goodness leaves him blind to your potential for treachery, but the rest of us are not so foolish." She glared at him. "I warn you now, Zevran, and I will not warn you again. Not one of us here, who are loyal to the Warden, would ever allow any harm to come to him; even if it was from his lover. Should you prove to be a danger..." She raised a hand, palm up, and let a ball of flame dance above it, making sure he saw the threat of it before closing her hand in a fist, letting the fire burn out. "We would not hesitate to be rid of you."

With those words, she turned sharply on her heel and strode past him, leaving him standing alone on the path.

He stared at her, not quite seeing, as his mind swam with the thoughts that she had planted in his mind. Then, shaking his head, he continued up the path, his mind working over the possibilities that Wynne had brought up.

What if the Crows did indeed offer to take him back, with the condition that he finished the job?

Would he truly turn on the Warden, and kill him right there and then?

_As if the Crows would be so accepting of your mistake, Zevran. You already know how well they can lie about this, and that you might very well be punished, even if you kill the Warden._

_But what if they were sincere? The Crows are not so many that they can afford to lose an assassin of your calibre. Even if you are not one of the best, you are still one of their most well-trained assassins, and definitely one of their most talented recruits._

_But they sent Taliesin, the one who knows you best, and who knows your weaknesses. Why would they send him, if not to finish you off?_

_Or maybe he volunteered; knowing that he is the only person you trust amongst the Crows, and intending to take you back?_

_Or maybe Taliesin intends to use that trust to lure you into dropping your_ _guard, so that he may kill you. He was always ambitious and dangerous, even when you were partners._

Preoccupied with his thoughts, he did not realize that the party had stopped until he nearly ran straight into the Warden's back. Only the fact that Alistair managed to grab him by the arm prevented him from breaking his nose on gleaming silverite plate.

"Careful there," Alistair said quietly, but his eyes and attention were on the Warden.

Blinking, Zevran raised his gaze, and found the Warden looking at someone approaching them. Armed, armoured, face hard with suspicion; obviously a guardsman, and from the way he moved this man had some skill.

But why would such a remote village need a guardsman?

"Funny," Alistair muttered. "Wouldn't think a place like this kept well-trained guards."

"Hush, Alistair," the Warden murmured. "Let's see what he wants."

The guard halted several paces away from them, his face set in hard lines. "What are you doing in Haven?" he demanded in a rasping voice. "There is nothing for you here."

The Warden's face expressed nothing but polite interest; he glanced around lazily, almost casually, before raising a brow at the guard. "So this is Haven?" he asked, sounding just a little disappointed, as if he expected something more.

The guardsman just scowled at the Warden. "What do you want?"

The Warden shrugged, smiled slightly. "I would like to explore Haven for a while."

Clearly this wasn't the answer the guard wanted; his scowl darkened as he shook his head. "We do not appreciate lowlanders 'looking about' our home as though it were some kind of zoo."

The Warden's smile widened briefly, his demeanour still outwardly pleasant. "Very well," he murmured, bowing slightly. "Excuse me."

That seemed to annoy the guard further, interestingly enough. "You may trade for supplies at the shop if you wish. Then I suggest you and your companions  _leave_."

The Warden just continued to smile politely, inclining his head briefly at the guard before he turned and passed the hostile man.

Shooting a curious glance at the guardsman, Zevran trailed after the Warden.

"Did it just get a lot colder?" Alistair remarked quietly. "Or is it just me?"

 _Not just you,_  Zevran thought, at the same time Wynne said, "I suggest we tread carefully here. Something is amiss."

Zevran chuckled. "Ah, quiet, insular communities. There's always something  _nasty_  going on behind closed doors."

Wynne shot a sharp glare at him. "You  _always_  think there's something nasty going on behind closed doors."

"That's because there often is," he replied cheerfully, grinning when she narrowed her eyes, before he added in a musing tone, "I hope it involves chains. I hope they ask me to join in."

"Zevran," the Warden said warningly.

Zevran shrugged and verbally fell in line, although he did raise his brows suggestively at Wynne. It only earned him another razor-sharp glare.

Looking away, his grin faded as he looked up at the Warden, and his thoughts drifted back to Wynne's words from before.

Given the chance, would he truly betray the Warden that way, in order to rejoin the Crows?

A year ago, when he had newly joined the Warden's companions, the answer to that question would have been a clear "yes", but now...

He thought about the Warden's actions over the months, especially the recent ones; how the human seemed to pay close attention to Zevran, how he seemed to genuinely  _care_  for him.

Unbidden, the image of  _her_  rose in his mind, and the Warden's face overlaid it, mingled with that memory, so that it was the Warden who stared at him in shocked betrayal as he slit his throat—

Zevran mentally gagged, staggering away from the thought.

Could he? Could he truly do that? Kill the man who had done nothing except protect him, care for him?

_He is doing this for his own benefit, you know. What if he grows tired of you, and decides you are of no use to him, what then?_

_The Warden won't do that. He won't betray you like that. He is too noble, too kind and good._

_And how are you so sure? Just because he accepts you into his bed does not mean that he will protect you forever. This sort of thing had never lasted in the past; what makes you think that it will last now? Better to be rid of this when the time is right, before you are truly trapped._

"Zevran?"

He jumped at the voice, and a heavy hand gently grasped his shoulder. Wide-eyed, he raised his gaze only to find the Warden giving him a look of concern.

"Is something wrong, Zevran?" the Warden asked. "You have your head in the clouds again."

Zevran blinked, and then smiled brightly. "Ah... I apologise." He shrugged off the Warden's hand. "The mountain air must be getting to me."

The Warden let his hand fall, but his eyes searched Zevran's, his brows lowered in the beginnings of a frown.

Zevran only gave him his most casual expression, careful to not let any of his thoughts show; it only made the Warden frown even more, but the human seemed to grudgingly accept Zevran's excuse. "Be careful," he said, stepping back and away from Zevran. "The last thing I need is one of my men daydreaming in a potentially hostile area."

Mentally cursing his inattentiveness, he nodded. "I shall be much more careful from now on."

Giving one last scrutinizing look, the Warden turned and loped on ahead.

Letting out a relieved sigh, Zevran followed, feeling Alistair and Wynne's cautious gazes on him and doing his best to ignore them.

Later, he promised himself. Those thoughts could wait; he would revisit them after they had found this Urn.

He did not look forward to doing so. 

_~to be continued~_


	34. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Many thanks to my grammar fairy/editor, **Scarylady1**. Your advice and patience are much appreciated._

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 33_

* * *

 

The trek back down from Haven was completely silent. No small talk, no quick-witted exchanges to pass the time; the only sound any of them made were light panting breaths, as they carefully climbed their way down the steep path.

An unusual thing, to be sure, but they had only just found the most unusual of treasures.

Zevran's gaze dropped to the inconspicuous-looking leather pouch tied to the Warden's belt, swinging back and forth with each step the tall man took. Who would have thought that the ashes of the Maker's bride lay within the leather confines? Or that they had gathered it from the urn crafted by Her followers, protected by the power of faith (or the power of magic, if Wynne's remark upon entering the temple was true) and hidden within the heart of the ancient temple atop the Frostback Mountains?

A year ago he would have laughed at such a notion. Now he could only ponder upon what he had just experienced in silent awe.

Judging from the quietness of both Alistair and Wynne, they too felt the same lingering sense of wonder the sight of Andraste's ashes had inspired in him.

But not the Warden.

The silence that had enveloped the human was not one of awe, or even one of shock. It was a dark silence, a heavy silence. Zevran was uncomfortably reminded of the quiet calm of a storm before it unleashed its full wrath.

Or the silent moment when a too-tight bowstring stretched and thinned before it snapped, destroyed by forces that it cannot withstand.

Zevran wasn't sure which state of mind the Warden was in now; and to be honest, he wasn't sure which of the two frightened him more.

Alistair and Wynne had started speaking quietly between themselves, their hushed voices drifting easily through the cold mountain air. Zevran spared the pair a brief glance over his shoulder before he sighed and rolled his eyes away. No doubt they were discussing how visiting the final resting place of Andraste had changed them; there were times when he found their religiousness incredibly boring. Leliana was the most faithful of their lot; but she was a bard, and knew how to speak of the Maker in a way that captured the attention, and held it. Compared to her, Alistair and Wynne — especially Wynne — simply sounded preachy and stiff.

But he had to admit, things had changed after visiting that temple... although not in the way that the two of them would think.

He'd been somewhat surprised to hear what the Guardian had to say about the Warden; particularly that little bit about the Warden abandoning his mother and father to their fate. He dimly remembered Bann Teagan telling him and Alistair, over wine and cheese, about the slaughter at Castle Highever; but to think that the Warden was  _there_ _,_ and only barely managed to escape...

He thought the Warden incredibly lucky, and smart enough to cut his losses to save his own skin. But from the bitter, bitter cold in the Warden's eyes as he tonelessly told the Guardian that, yes, he had regretted abandoning his parents, and that he should have stayed to defend them even at the cost of his own life, the Warden was more sentimental than Zevran had believed.

He had scoffed at that bit of foolishness, and received angry glares from Alistair and Wynne, but the Warden had given no sign that he had even heard Zevran's remark. The Warden had only stared at a spot on the wall, his hands clenched so tightly that Zevran had heard the metal of his gauntlets creak.

The Guardian asked similarly pointed questions to Alistair and Wynne; their answers were predictably sentimental, and he had scoffed at them as well. But then the Guardian turned to him...

* * *

_Eyes the brilliant blue of raw lyrium stared at him, piercing and cold, emotionless and all-too-knowing. He fought the instinct to shrink back from that stare; instead, he strapped steel to his spine and glared back at the Guardian._

" _Is it my turn now?" he drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Hurrah. I'm so excited."_

_Alistair and Wynne both frowned at him for his impudence; the Warden raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a smile that did not quite reach the sadness still lingering in his gaze. Knowing that the Guardian had caused that sadness, Zevran felt himself grow all the angrier._

_He narrowed his eyes_ _,_ _as the Guardian just continued to look at him with that unblinking stare. Then the Guardian spoke, his voice echoing with magic:_

" _Many have died at your hand. But is there any you regret more than a woman by the name of—"_

_Ice slithered up his spine, freezing his heart, stabbing into wounds that had only started to heal. "How do you know about that?" he blurted, his eyes widening._

" _I know much; it is allowed to me." The Guardian's words were soft, almost kindly, even as his face betrayed no emotion. "The question stands, however. Do you regret—"_

" _Yes." He gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the pain of old memories, and failing. His eyes stung_ _;_ _blinking rapidly, he crossed his arms protectively over his chest and looked away at a spot on the ancient wall. "The answer is yes, if that's what you wished to know. I do. Now move on."_

_He was dimly aware of the Guardian granting permission, and heard the old doors creak open. He did not move, did not speak; he only continued to look at the wall with unshed tears in his eyes, until he felt a gauntleted hand lightly, gently rest on his shoulder._

" _Zevran," the Warden murmured to him. "Let's go. We should move on."_

_He continued to stare silently at the wall for a while longer, before he raised his eyes to meet the Warden's, and nodded, feeling far too numb._

_The Warden didn't say anything; the hand on Zevran's shoulder simply slid down, drifting around his back to curve over the upper part of the opposite arm. The fingers squeezed briefly in an approximation of a hug before they fell away._

_The gesture was small, and lasted no more than a heartbeat. But Zevran felt the painful ice in his chest slowly thaw._

* * *

At the moment Zevran was simply grateful that the Warden didn't ask about his 'regret', as it were; he didn't know if he really wanted to revisit that memory. But the Gauntlet was not a kind test, and it was the Warden who was tested the most...

* * *

" _You know, it's funny that Andraste's 'guardians' would use riddles as a test," Alistair remarked while the Warden was puzzling over the shade of Archon Hessarian's question. "Isn't this supposed to be a test of faith?"_

" _The Maker works in mysterious ways," Wynne murmured, but she said it with a frown. "Still, I expected something more spiritual and less..._ _cerebral."_

" _Well, I'm glad they're asking him_ _,_ _not me," Alistair said, watching the Warden stare up at the ceiling in thought. "Some of those riddles are hard."_

" _Or maybe you're just not smart enough," Zevran quipped with a grin._

_Before Alistair could think of a reply to that, there was a burst of light, and the massive double doors before them swung open with a harshly-grating sound that made Zevran clench his teeth._

" _Ah, there we are!" The Warden sounded ridiculously cheerful as he rejoined the group, a wide grin spread across his face. "What an utter relief! Here I thought that we'd be answering riddles until the sun set."_

" _You were_ _having a lot of fun with those riddles," Alistair said_ _,_ _semi-accusingly._

" _That I was," the Warden murmured blithely, not sounding remotely apologetic. Shrugging, he smirked at Alistair and inclined his head. "So, whose turn is it to step into the unknown?"_

" _Why, it's your turn, O Fearless Leader," Alistair drawled, giving the Warden a lopsided grin._

" _Again?"_ _T_ _he Warden sighed. "Oh well, I suppose a leader's work is never done."_

" _That's what leaders are for," Alistair said cheerfully. "Lead_ _ing_ _people and... lead_ _ing_ _them to stuff."_

_Zevran heard Wynne sigh quietly. "Dear Maker," she muttered. "There are times when I wonder if I_ _am_ _travelling with a pair of little boys_ _,_ _instead of grown men."_

_He grinned as he caught up to the Warden; the human was biting his lower lip in a plain attempt to choke back laughter. "For the record," Zevran whispered quietly, raising his brows suggestively, "I think you are a very well_ _-_ _grown man."_

_The Warden's face went red and he made a strange sound_ _;_ _it sounded like something between a snort and a groan._

_The hallway beyond the doors was quiet, and dark. Cold, too; Zevran could see his breath waft out as little white clouds. There was a faint piping music that echoed discordantly with about as much melody as a yowling cat, and at the far end of the corridor a man stood waiting._

_Not very interesting... until Zevran sensed the Warden freeze at the sight. A look of uncomprehending disbelief showed on his face, and he made a strangled noise in his throat._

_Zevran squinted. The man's back was towards them, but Zevran could see that he was tall, broad-shouldered, with a head of silver hair and a bearing that spoke of arrogant confidence._

_A very familiar bearing. One that instantly reminded Zevran of the Warden._

_Zevran felt a tingle of unease, one that grew stronger as they approached the figure. The man remained facing the way, and he seemed to be waiting for the moment when the Warden halted a few paces away from him._

_The figure turned._

_A face lined with age, but still handsome and proud. A body that showed the frailness of the old but still carried a quiet strength born of iron will and discipline. Blue eyes faded with the passage of years but still piercing sharp and full of cunning._

_Zevran felt his eyes widen, his lungs suck in a shocked breath._

_The eyes were kinder, the face softer and warmer, the body more slender. But there was no doubt that this man was where the Warden gained his powerful build and masculine good looks._

" _My dearest son."_

_Even the voice was a rougher version of the Warden's; or rather, the Warden's voice a smoother version of this man's._

_The Warden made a low, keening sound, his eyes reflecting pained grief. "Father?"_

_The man's face was sad and full of regret, but the eyes were strangely peaceful, and his voice held nothing but gentleness as he spoke: "You know that I am gone, and all your prayers and wishes would not bring me back."_

_The Warden opened his mouth, as if he wanted to speak, but the man — the shade —_ _shook his head._

" _No more must you grieve, my boy," it said. "Take the pain and the guilt, acknowledge it, and let go. It is time." A touch of sadness entered the shade's eyes as it reached out and took one of the Warden's hands. The Warden let it lift his hand, his face pale and eyes too bright._

" _You have such a long road ahead of you, and you must be prepared." The shade's other hand pressed... something into the Warden's palm, before closing the plate-clad fingers over it. "And so I leave this in your hands." The shade let go of the Warden's hand and stepped back, a small smile curving its lips. "I know you will do great things with it."_

_With those words, the shade's eyes closed, and it faded away, disappearing as if it had never been there._

_The Warden stared at the spot where the shade had been, and Zevran watched as the Warden's eyes closed, and a single tear trailed down his face._

* * *

The Warden had remained silent after that, only speaking up again when they met with Genitivi (he was rather caustic about Genitivi's insistence that they share the discovery of Andraste's birthplace, but he didn't actually object to it). Since then he had not said a single word, and Zevran found the oppressive silence extremely disturbing.

Unfortunately, this was neither the time nor the place to do something about it. But something had to be done, and soon, before the strange mood that had gripped the Warden destroyed everything that they had worked for.

_~to be continued~_


	35. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Many thanks to my grammar fairy/editor, **Scarylady1**. Your advice and patience are much appreciated._

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 34_

* * *

 

The Warden remained disturbingly silent all the way back to camp. In fact, the moment that they safely reached the campsite, the Warden excused himself and disappeared off into the woods.

Zevran was tempted to run after the Warden, but thought better of it. The Warden clearly did not wish to speak about whatever burdens he was wrestling with.

_And you have no right to pry into your leader's personal demons, even if you share_ _d_ _a bed with him._

So he simply sighed, gritted his teeth, and manfully resisted the urge to chase after the wayward, likely suicide-inclined human.

Not that he thought that the Warden would actually go that far; if there was one thing he was sure about the Warden, it was that the man had a sense of duty as unmovable as the Frostback Mountains themselves.

The Warden did not return for a long time; when he did, it was already late into the night, and Zevran was just about to crawl into bed. The human did not make a sound as he slipped inside the tent; only a draft of cold air from the briefly-open tent flap alerted Zevran to his return

Zevran raised a brow and smiled as the Warden slunk in. The human's hair was dripping wet, and he seemed to be clutching a sack in his hand. "Ah, there you are," he drawled as the soaked man dropped the sack beside the bed and started to take off his armour. "I was beginning to think that you have gotten lost in the woods."

"Really?" the Warden said, his light tone at odds with the still sombre expression. "And you haven't tried to go look for me?"

"I didn't think you would appreciate my company."  _Or any sort of company, as a matter of fact._  Zevran watched as the Warden stripped down to his breeches. His shoulders were already damp with the dripping water. "Someone took a little swim, I see."

"Just needed to clear my head," the Warden murmured, reaching for the sack.

_Clear your head, or to drown yourself?_

Swallowing back the retort, Zevran let his gaze fall to the sack. "Oh? And what sort of treasure have you found while swimming?"

The Warden smiled. It was a tight smile, but it was still a smile; Zevran found himself relaxing a little at the sight. "Aside from a lot of pebbles and more freshwater shrimp than I would care to fish out, I haven't found anything." He dropped the sack on the bed, opened it, and started to rummage through it. "I found  _these_ —" His hand pulled out a pair of dark-coloured boots and set them beside Zevran. "—not too long ago, and I thought that you might like them."

Zevran blinked at the boots and, about the same time, the pungent scent of tanned leather wafted up his nose and sank its teeth into his head. He felt a smile spread across his face. "Hmmm." He took in a deep breath, and the scent sharpened in his nose. "That smell... this is Antivan leather, isn't it? I would know that anywhere!" Chuckling, he reached for the boots and looked up at the Warden. "I don't know how you found it, but thank you."

The Warden's response to Zevran's glee was to raise an eyebrow and widen his smile just a bit.

Laughing, Zevran ran his fingers over the boot in his hand, feeling his fingertips slide the buttery-smooth leather and scrape against the fine stitches. They feel like genuine Antivan leather too; marvellous!

"What are you waiting for?" the Warden asked. "Try them on."

Zevran widened his eyes in mock horror. "But I'm not finished admiring them, yet! Can you smell that?" He sniffed hard again, to punctuate his words. "Like rotting flesh. Just like back in Antiva City." He grinned as he set the boots down on the floor. "Now if you only could find me a prostitute or two, a bowl of fish chowder and a corrupt politician, I'd really feel like I was home." Laughing softly, he slipped his bare feet into the boots, feeling the comfortable snugness of the leather. "And they fit, as well!" he exclaimed. "Marvellous!"

The Warden had been silent while Zevran tried on the boots, his face wearing a charming expression that was one part disbelief and two parts disgust. "...Fish chowder?"

Zevran raised a brow at the Warden. "You don't like fish chowder?"

The Warden shuddered. He actually  _shuddered._  "Nan loved to feed me those when I fell sick. It didn't take very long for me to get so  _sick_  of chowder that I did my best to not fall sick again."

Zevran laughed, taking off the boots (he  _was_  supposed to go to bed after all, and he doubted the Warden would appreciate having him fall asleep with his boots on) and tsk'ed at the Warden's remark. "Ah, my dear, you Fereldens couldn't make good food even if you tried. You should come to Antiva with me and taste some  _proper_  food. Of course, we can only do that once all of this is ov—"

Zevran's mind screeched to a halt, and he hastily bit back on the rest of his words.

"...once all of this is over?"

Zevran blinked at the deep, questioning voice. The Warden was staring at him, and his expression... Zevran wasn't sure he wanted to know what that glint in the keen eyes meant, or why the Warden's mouth was starting to curve into a familiar grin.

"I—" He frowned. "Well, that is assuming that both of us live through this and that you are free to go. It's not written in stone that you would still be with me, after all."

The Warden's teeth were a broad, brilliant slash of white in the dark. "Written in stone, you say?" the Warden said musingly... and far too  _smugly_  for Zevran to be comfortable with. "You know, I think I would like the idea of a stone carved with—"

Zevran did  _not_  like where this conversation was heading.

Feeling more than a little cornered, his eyes darted back to the sack, an oddly-shaped lump of burlap still sitting on the bed. "So what else do you have in there?"

"Oh." The grin faded a bit. "Right. I forgot about that." The Warden reached into the sack again, and pulled out a dark-coloured glass bottle, with a finely-etched label on it. Zevran felt his eyes widen at the sight.

"Is that what I think it is?"

"Mmm..." The Warden raised the bottle up to his face, squinting at the label. "If you are asking if this is a rare Antivan passion fruit brandy, then I'd say it's exactly what you think it is."

Zevran laughed delightedly. "My, my, your ability to find rare treasures amazes me."

"I am glad you approve," the Warden drawled as he pulled off the stopper and handed the open bottle to Zevran.

Zevran eagerly picked the bottle (and almost dropped it; it was surprisingly cold to the touch) and took a mouthful straight from the bottle, savouring the tart spiciness that flowed over his tongue and burned down his throat. Licking his lips, he grinned as he gave the bottle back to the Warden. "So, what's the occasion?"

Whatever good cheer that was on the Warden's face vanished. "Nothing." He took a long swig from the bottle, his throat working as he gulped more than a few mouthfuls down (Zevran winced at the sight of such good spirits being carelessly consumed like it was water) before he set the bottle down with a sigh. "After that little experience over at the ancient temple, I thought just I just thought I needed some liquid courage."

_Oh._  "Isn't it customary for one to consume liquid courage  _before_  facing such trials?" Zevran asked softly, taking the bottle from the Warden before the human drunk more than his fair share.

The Warden smiled. It was just a shade too bright and too forced. "Hey, better late than never, right?"

Zevran considered that. He decided that he couldn't argue with that logic, flawed though it was.

Especially given that the Warden's eyes still held a frightening bleakness.

Smiling grimly, he raised the bottle up in a mock toast. "To getting splendidly drunk," he murmured, before tossing a mouthful back.

"Drowning sorrows, and whatnot," the Warden murmured in agreement, already reaching for the bottle again.

* * *

In the hour that followed Zevran learned two new things about his dear Warden.

The first was that the boy had absolutely no tolerance for alcohol. Although, to be fair, it had been a long day, and Zevran doubted that the Warden had eaten anything before he started drinking.

The second was that a drunken Warden was a very,  _very_  talkative Warden.

"... and so I was standing there, covered with chicken feathers and mud and Maker knows what sort of filth, with an enthusiastic mabari pup barking and dancing around me, while Nan and Mother stood there staring at me like I'd turned into an actual chicken—although considering the amount of feathers stuck to me, I suppose I was in the process of looking very much like one." The Warden laughed. "Maker's breath, you wouldn't know a good scolding until you've been scolded by two of the best scolders in Highever. At the same time, I might add. At the end of that, I was dunked into a cold bath and then sent to my room without supper, with my eardrums still ringing from it all."

Zevran smirked. They were both sprawled out on the furs, the brandy bottle a dark shape between the two of them and within easy reach. The Warden was clearly intoxicated, his face flushed and his eyes glassy and his mouth spread in a rather silly-looking grin.

Although to be entirely fair, Zevran was far from sober himself; he couldn't quite control his limbs, and his head was buzzing pleasantly with what promised to be a very painful headache come morning, but at that moment he was too relaxed with spirits and conversation to care.

"Hey," the Warden murmured, rolling over to flop on his belly, resting his head on his arm and looking at Zevran. "What about you?"

"Hmm?" Zevran smiled at the Warden. "What about me?"

"You haven't talked." The Warden frowned and gave Zevran what was supposed to be a stern look; the drunken glaze over the eyes spoilt it, however. "'S not fair that I do all the talking."

"I rather enjoyed listening to you talk."

"Well it's your turn now, so there."

Zevran snorted, propping his head up on his hand, his elbow braced against the furs. "Very well, my dear... what do you wish me to talk about?"

"Tell me more about your adventures."

Zevran smiled at the predictable answer, his mind already casting back for more tales of his time as a Crow before the final mission with Rin...

His mind slowed. Stopped.

It was a habit by now for him to skip past his memories of that ill-fated mission, only telling his Warden of his time  _before_  it all happened.

But he was tired, he suddenly realized, tired of running and hiding and pretending that those memories did not exist. The Guardian had asked if he had regretted her death, and he was honest with his answer to that spiritual entity.

Yet he was not entirely honest to the Warden about it.

The Warden who had been so careful to avoid asking about that last mission before he was sent to kill the Grey Wardens, even when Zevran caught glimpses of bright curiosity in the other man's gaze.

A man who had grown close to him, closer than he would like to admit, but it was an undeniable fact.

He also couldn't deny that the Warden had been remarkably open to him; Zevran doubted many of their party saw beyond that grim-faced, formidable, occasionally light-hearted, veneer of a commanding leader that the human had so carefully cultivated.

He was aware of the Warden watching him carefully as he thought about this. Again the Warden did not press him, simply waited until Zevran was comfortable enough to speak what was on his mind.

A considerate man, his Warden. One who deserved better than the secrecy that Zevran had maintained so well.

So Zevran raised his eyes to meet the Warden's gaze (that open,  _accepting_  gaze), took in a deep breath, and spoke. Softly. Slowly. "I wouldn't have spoken about it before, but... you have been a good friend. There is no reason for me not to speak of it now." He took in another breath, to ease the sudden tightness in his chest. "There is a reason I accepted this mission in Ferelden, far away from home, and it had nothing to do with any thought that I might leave the Crows. Meeting you, after all, was quite an accident."

The Warden smiled slightly at that, but he nodded, indicating for Zevran to go on.

Zevran closed his eyes, braced himself for his next words. "My last mission before this one... did not end well."

The Warden's smile had faded. His eyes narrowed, the drink only dulling the sharpness ever so slightly. "It failed? Or something else?"

Zevran shook his head slightly, winced when the movement made the inside of the tent tilt dangerously sideways. "The mission itself was quite successful. I mean that it did not end well for me." He sighed. "You must realize that until that day I was cocky and arrogant. I was the best Crow in Antiva, I believed, and I bragged of my conquests often... both as an assassin and lover."

"... You were  _more_  cocky and arrogant?"

The disbelief in the Warden's voice (and the teasing smile dancing on his lips) made Zevran chuckle. "Indeed. I was often told that I was insufferable... right before I ended up in bed with someone. Such is how it was." He let his eyes grow distant as he let long-buried memories rise again to his thoughts. "One of the Crow masters grew tired of my boasting. My bid for an incredibly difficult mark was accepted, much to my surprise: A wealthy merchant with many guards and completely silent. Taliesen agreed to be part of my team, as well as an elven lass named Rinna. She was... a marvel. Tough, smooth, wicked. Eyes that gleamed like justice. Everything I thought I desired."

"And you fell in love." The Warden's voice was quiet, barely above a whisper, the soft words carrying no emotion.

"Rinna was special," Zevran said equally softly. "I had closed off my heart, I thought, but she touched something within me. It frightened me."  _I had feared what she had stirred within me, and because of that, I had feared her._ He closed his eyes, feeling the memories swirl in his mind like a whirlwind in the Antivan desert, carrying with them sharp emotional sands that still had the power to wound. "When Taliesen revealed to me that Rinna had accepted a bribe from the merchant, told him of our plan, I readily agreed that she needed to pay the price and allowed Taliesen to kill her."

He had to swallow past the lump that had grown in his throat before he spoke again, and even then his voice sounded hoarse to his ears:  _"_ Rinna begged me not to. On her knees, with tears in her eyes, she told me that she loved me and had not betrayed us. I laughed in her face, and said that even if it were true, I didn't care."

The Warden's eyes narrowed thoughtfully again. "But that wasn't true."

"I convinced myself it was." Zevran felt his eyes begin to burn; he had to look away and blink furiously for a moment before he felt certain that he could speak again: "Taliesen cut her throat and I watched her bleed as she stared up at me. I spat on her for betraying the Crows. When Taliesen and I finally assassinated the merchant we found the true source of his information. Rinna had not betrayed us after all."

He heard his voice break near the end, and his fist clenched on the furs in front of him as long-buried guilt flooded through him, burning him. He had convinced himself that it did not matter; the pain he felt now told him otherwise, that it had only waited patiently beneath the mental walls he had built around it. Ignored, but not forgotten.

He felt a hand close around his clenched fist, warm and gentle, a quiet comfort.

"I'm so sorry." The Warden's words were soft, quiet.

Zevran opened his eyes, but the Warden was looking at him with a deep understanding, his gaze holding no hint of the pity that Zevran would have hated.

"I..." Zevran swallowed again. "I... wanted to tell the Crows what we had done, our mistake. Taliesen convinced me not to. He said it would be a foolish waste. So we reported that Rinna had died in the attempt."  _And what a useless lie that was._  "We needn't have bothered. The Crows knew what we had done. The master who disliked me told me so to my face. He said the Crows knew... and they didn't care. And one day my turn would come." He could never forget the malicious spite in the master's voice as the words were spat at him, could never forget the vicious glee in the master's eyes at the prospect of Zevran's death.

The Warden remained quiet for a long time; he simply looked at where his hand covered Zevran's, his fingers idly tracing over the finer bones in Zevran's hand. "...I don't know what to say."

An honest answer. Zevran was grateful for that. He didn't quite know what to say about it himself.

He waited until the Warden's gaze rose up to meet his before he spoke again: "You once asked why I wanted to leave the Crows. In truth, what I wanted was to die. What better way than to throw myself at one of the fabled Grey Wardens? And then... this happened."  _I found you, and you found me._  "And here I am."

The Warden's eyes had widened when he had said that he had wanted to die; Zevran could see a well of sadness in them, and beyond that an even deeper well of understanding.  _He_ _ha_ _s_ _felt the same before_ , Zevran suddenly thought, and knew that it was true.  _But he decided not to allow himself to die after all._

Zevran wished he felt the same certainty. He had come to Ferelden with the intention of ending his own life, but now...

He wasn't sure if that was what he truly wanted.

The Warden picked up the forgotten bottle of brandy between them and set it on the ground, beside the bed, before he reached up, wrapped his arms around Zevran and pulled him close in a comforting hug.

The gesture was so sudden, so  _unexpected_ , Zevran felt himself stiffen as those arms tightened around him, a hand pressing his face towards a broad shoulder while the other hand caressed in a soothing motion up and down his back.

And strangely, the touch worked. Zevran felt it to his bones, a gentle warmth that flowed over the bleeding wounds in his soul and sealed them. Healed them. He knew (with a certainty that he rarely felt) he could now remember Rinna and that ill-fated mission without any fear of pain.

Like an old scar; one could look at it and remember what caused the scar, but could no longer feel the wound.

"That is awful, Zevran," the Warden murmured into his ear. "I'm so sorry."

The words made him stir; he lifted his head up so he could look at the Warden properly. The keen eyes still held that sadness, and a dark emotion that made Zevran wonder what exactly he was sorry for.

Zevran struggled with what to say next; he didn't know what to say, not really. Not after what he had gone through. "It... feels good to speak of it to someone. I swore I never would." He smiled slightly. "Whatever it is that I sought by leaving Antiva, I think I have found it. I owe you a great deal."

Yes, that was it. It was a strange thing to admit, but speaking with the Warden  _did_  make him feel better; he felt like he had truly forgiven himself. Perhaps, given a few more years, Zevran might have healed on his own, but he knew that it was equally likely that he would never forgive himself for it, and carry that wound for his entire life.

The Warden's presence, and more importantly, his  _acceptance_ , had made the process easier.

_You seem to be making a habit of owing the Warden,_  a voice murmured sardonically in his head.  _Next thing you know, you will have a lifetime's worth of debts to pay, and what will you do?_

Zevran thought about that for a moment. Decided that he didn't really care if he owed the Warden, which should have disturbed him.

Perhaps the drink had addled his wits more than he cared to admit.

The Warden was still watching him, still caressing him; although the touch was lighter, less intent than before. Even as drunk as he was, Zevran started to feel the unavoidable effects of the slow, repetitive motions of the Warden's palm over his back. Shifting up, he wiggled until their heads were level; his hand already rising up to cradle a firm jaw even as he lowered to press their lips together.

Their lips held, clung in a kiss that was as light as a feather... for all of two heartbeats.

Then the fire that had always burned between them flared to life, fuelled by spirits and battered emotions into a heat that consumed them both.

The Warden's lips parted beneath his, and Zevran responded purely by instinct, his tongue plunging in to taste the lingering sweetness of the brandy. He rolled the Warden onto his back before he settled over the heavy human frame, his body sinking against the solid wall of muscle and bone. He felt the Warden's hands slide down to circle around his waist, holding their bodies close.

Something in Zevran unlocked, unfroze, and melted away.

Their kiss degenerated into something that was wet, sloppy, both frantic and lazy, before the Warden broke it with a snort of not-quite-sober laughter.

"Maker's breath," the Warden gasped, half out of breath from the kiss. "We are both so, so  _drunk_."

"That we are," Zevran said, grinning and raising an eyebrow. "Do you mind?"

"Not a damn bit." The Warden surged up, captured Zevran's mouth in a rough kiss that sent them both reeling. One of Zevran's legs slipped between the Warden's (entirely by accident, although he would deny it if asked), and his weight shifted, so their hips pressed against their respective still-clothed erections, making them both groan.

The Warden hissed, his hands shifting down to grab Zevran's behind and give it a hard squeeze, which made Zevran moan and press down harder.

Suddenly they were both caught in a frenetic, grinding rhythm that sent them both careening halfway to the point of no return before Zevran's mind managed to pick up that fact through the combined haze of lust and drink in his head. With a heartfelt groan he forced himself up on his elbows and knees, breaking the contact between their bodies.

The Warden growled his displeasure, his eyes narrowing, but Zevran shook his head.

"Not this way," Zevran breathed, leaning up and already pulling off his tunic.

He was wriggling out of his breeches before the Warden seemed to catch on to what he said, and then the human was stripping off his own clothing, somehow managing to get gloriously naked before Zevran. The moment Zevran kicked off the last of his clothing, however, the Warden grabbed him and tossed him back on the bed, making him yelp before he was suddenly covered by hot, heavy male and a hot, hungry mouth covered his.

The Warden ravaged his mouth, taking his breath away, and sending his senses spiralling to dizzying new heights. He was feeling more than a little light-headed when the kiss broke again. Wet lips cruised down his jaw, his throat, his chest and belly. Before he even realized what was going on the Warden reached his waist and swallowed his cock all the way to the hilt, turning his spine to water and sending whatever little blood that had remained in his head down to where the Warden's mouth licked and sucked. He let out a soft, breathless moan and sank both hands into the other man's hair.

No teasing, no finesse, no polished technique (and Zevran knew that the Warden's technique in this was remarkably polished, even though he had only picked it up in the recent months), it was simply the hard heat of a sword-callused hand on the inside of his thigh and another hand fondling around the base of his erection and the Warden's mouth hot and insistent and demanding and  _hungry_  around the engorged flesh of his cock, sucking him with such force that Zevran felt like he was being bodily lifted off the bed with every pull of that devouring mouth.

The urgency and the need and the drink still buzzing in both their systems turned this into a sleazy, messy affair where the only goal was to  _get off_  and before he knew it he was coming hard and fast, his hips circling in a tight little arc as he drove up into the Warden's waiting mouth with an intensity that left him gasping, and sent blood rushing back up into his head so quickly that white spots danced in front of his eyes.

The Warden continued to suck on him, pulling out the last shreds of Zevran's orgasm and refusing to relent until Zevran was gasping, his body tingling with the aftershocks, and the Warden eventually eased back before the suction on his too-sensitive cock started to edge over to the wrong side of painful. Zevran let go of the Warden's hair, forcing his fingers to uncurl from the locked, talon-like state they had turned into, and rubbed a hand clumsily over his own face, feeling the sweat that dampened his skin and the heat of his cheeks and well-aware of how flushed he must be.

The Warden finally let him go, chuckling darkly as he shifted back up so his face was a dark shape hovering over Zevran's. "Well, that was nice," he rumbled, teeth a brief flash in the darkness. "Didn't expect you to end things so quickly though."

Zevran tried for a glare, but his face was still slack from pleasure. He finally decided there were better ways to retort to that statement. "Come here," he whispered, his hands curving around the Warden's neck, "come to  _me,_ " and then he lunged up on one elbow, towards the Warden's smiling mouth.

The Warden laughed through their kiss, his mouth opening easily and his tongue stabbing out to give Zevran a taste of the lingering salty-bitterness of his own come. The hand at the Warden's neck shifted down to grip a broad shoulder and pushed, until the Warden was the one lying on his back this time and Zevran was the one on top. The moment he had the other man where he wanted, Zevran swept down, his mouth going straight from the Warden's kiss-swollen lips to the Warden's erection.

He heard the Warden bark out a startled breath, heavy hands catching at his shoulders, then scraping through his hair and over his scalp before settling to clutch wildly at the back of his neck, making him shudder. Zevran discarded half-formed ideas of teasing tricks and shows of finesse; he was too drunk and too giddy from his recent orgasm to be able to do anything more than turn this into a messy affair of spit and suction that forced the Warden to simply  _take take take_ , the muscled thighs framing Zevran's head as hard as rock whenever his cheek brushed against them.

He dug his fingers into the Warden's behind and lifted the other man up towards his mouth; the Warden's feet and arms dug into the furs in response, keeping him in that half-lifted position that allowed Zevran to work his mouth properly over the straining flesh. It was difficult to breathe that way, but Zevran knew his way around that particular difficulty. He simply breathed in sharply through his nose whenever he pulled back, before he slammed his mouth down hard, the Warden's cock slipping into his open throat as his nose reached the curly hairs at the base—

The Warden's increasingly harsh breathing warned him, and Zevran sucked harder, pulled the other man up to reach that pinnacle of bliss. It lifted the Warden straight up when he came; he bucked up hard beneath Zevran, and for a moment only his feet and shoulders were touching the bed, his body arching into a trembling arc. His eyes and his mouth both flew open as he made a choked roar, his fingers digging so hard into Zevran's neck it was almost painful.

Zevran felt the rush of the Warden's seed burn down his throat, an entirely different sort of burn from the brandy but no less glorious, and Zevran held his lover close until he collapsed back on the bed, spent and exhausted.

He let the softening flesh slip out of his mouth, his tongue darting out to lick his lips reflexively. Still wobbly-limbed, he crawled up the bed and sprawled over the Warden's body.

For a moment they both laid there in a tangle of sweaty, tired limbs, and then the Warden shifted, pulling Zevran up with his hands and settling them both into that curving hug he seemed to like so much, his arms and legs wrapped around Zevran's and his face buried into the junction between neck and shoulder.

Without thinking, Zevran's hand reached up and slowly combed through the Warden's tousled hair, scratching the scalp lightly with his fingernails, his eyes fluttering closed.

The Warden made a contented murmuring sound, but instead of settling down he raised his head to look at Zevran.

"Do you regret it?"

The quiet words poked through the sleepily blissful fog that had settled over Zevran's thoughts, and he cracked his eyes open slightly to peer at the Warden.

The handsome face was still flushed, but the eyes were clear and bright, almost sober, and his expression was quietly solemn.

For a moment he wondered if the Warden was asking about what happened with Rinna, but it did not take very long before he realized what exactly the Warden was asking.

He felt his lips curve into a smile as he raised a hand and brushed his knuckles against the Warden's cheek. "If you're asking whether I regret ever coming to Ferelden in the first place... no, I don't regret it at all."

The Warden smiled then, a happy little smile, before his head dropped back down and buried itself beside Zevran's neck again.

Zevran sighed, his head dipping down so his cheek pressed against the top of the Warden's head, his eyes drifting closed again.

A thought floated through his mind just before sleep claimed him, informing him that while he might not regret coming to Ferelden, he might regret ever telling the Warden that, and he would definitely regret drinking this much the next morning.

Yawning hugely, he tiredly shoved that thought to the back of his head, and he let himself be carried away by sleep.

Because at that very moment, the only things he cared about were the sexual bliss that left him beyond sated... and the heavy weight of his Warden lying in his arms.

_~to be continued~_


	36. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Many thanks to my grammar fairy/editor, **Scarylady1**. Your advice and patience are much appreciated._

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 35_

* * *

 

Things had changed again.

He wasn't sure what, exactly, had caused these changes. He only knew that they were there.

Truthfully, they were not very  _obvious_  changes, and to the less alert they would not seem so significant. But Zevran was an assassin trained to watch for changes such as these, and when these changes involved himself...

He sighed aloud, hearing the sound echo in the empty hallway. They had reached the Arl with the ashes, and managed to cure him before he slipped away to Death's embrace. A very happy Teagan had thanked the Warden, tears glistening in his eyes, before graciously inviting them to stay at the castle for the night.

A very  _empty_  castle, as it turned out. The memories of what had happened here not too long ago still lingered in everyone's minds, even if the stench of rotten flesh had been aired out, the corpses burned and ashes buried. He wasn't surprised that offers to fill the empty staff positions at the castle had been slow.

Still, an empty castle meant that he was free to wander its spacious halls. The quiet allowed him to move unseen and unobserved.

More importantly, it allowed him to think.

It had started with that drunken confession he made, he was sure. The Warden hadn't said a word about what had happened while they had gotten acquainted with that fine bottle of Antivan brandy, and Zevran had chosen not to bring up that subject again.

Nevertheless, they had somehow grown... closer. More intimate, if that was possible.

As utterly silly as it sounded, Zevran's awareness of the Warden's presense grew; his senses grew more attuned to the Warden's presence, to the subtle shifts of mood behind the usually inscrutable expression that the tall man wore. And in battle...

When they were ambushed by a group of mercenaries - a group of very well-trained mercenaries - the Warden had barked orders to the other companions, telling them what to do, who to target and so forth.

But not to Zevran. With him, the Warden simply raised his eyes, caught his gaze, and in them Zevran could read his commands, as clear as if they were spoken out loud:  _Take down the leader._

Then they were both moving, diving into the fray. And amongst the chaos of slashing blades and battle cries, he could  _feel_  where the Warden was, could sense his lover's presence without looking. Even as he crossed blades with the mercenary leader, he knew that the Warden was watching him as well, and when his opponent made a rash, wild swing to try knock him down, he did not simply dance back as he usually did. Instead, he lunged, ducking beneath that swing and striking out with his daggers, crippling the man, and at that moment the Warden was  _there_ , greatsword swinging, pommel smashing into the other man's face and knocking him out cold.

Zevran had sensed that move coming before he saw it. More, he had reacted entirely on instinct, not even thinking that his lover might be a moment too slow to take the opportunity, even when a misstep would put his own life in danger.

He had simply  _trusted_  the Warden to be there, where he needed him.

The very idea scared him silly.

Their fluid, instinctive teamwork had not gone unnoticed by their companions. Even Alistair had asked the Warden, once they sent the mercenary limping away, if the two of them had been training together.

To which the Warden had simply smiled — a brilliant, boyish, and  _happy_  smile that made all of them blink — and said: "I trusted him to be there."

 _That_ had certainly earned Zevran a suspicious look from Alistair, after the Warden had turned his attention back to the road, but the assassin wasn't paying attention to the dagger-sharp glare, his head spinning from the Warden's words.

_I trusted him to be there._

Trust. It was, for a Crow, both a great weapon and a great danger.

A weapon, if one used it to manipulate others to gain access to the mark, or even set up the mark so that the kill would be a quick and easy one.

A danger, because a Crow cannot afford to trust  _anyone_ , not even their fellow assassins. The shadowy world in which they lived was a cutthroat one, and it was accepted that an assassin would betray his or her own mother in order to gain greater favour with the masters.

A small thing, trust, but so very dangerous in the right hands.

Yet he trusted the Warden, and apparently his lover felt the same towards him.

So what did that mean for him?

He had been letting his feet walk aimlessly, letting himself simply drift through the halls; he slowed his steps, eventually stopped.

Found himself in front of the door to the castle's chapel.

He opened the door, peeked in; found the chapel as empty as the hallways had been.

Quiet. Private. Sighing, partly relieved but mostly weary, he slipped through the door, locking it behind him out of habit, before he went to the slightly raised dais and sat down, just beside the lectern.

A demon of rage had attacked them here, he remembered, when the castle was still under the possessed Connor's control. Someone had cleansed the chapel since then, but he doubted many had returned here to pray; the air and feel of the place was strangely clean and peaceful.

Ignoring that, he turned his attention back to the subject that had left him unable to sleep, and consequently made him wander the halls in the first place.

This growing relationship he had with his Warden. Or, more specifically, his growing  _feelings_  for the Warden.

He wanted, oh how he wanted, to deny that he had ever felt that way. But he was too aware of his own self, too aware of his own emotions, to fail to realise that he was starting to think of the Warden as something  _more_  than just a bed partner.

But  _what_  was the Warden to him  _now?_

He felt his lips curve in a smile of wry, dark humour. He recognized his feelings; they were the same as what he had felt for Rinna, right before Taliesen came to him with information of her supposed betrayal, before he had to turn against her, and kill her.

He had believed that, since that fateful error, he had hardened his heart from ever knowing such feelings again.

Evidently not.

The question remained, however: how should he deal with those feelings?

Leliana, the bright-eyed romantic amongst them, spoke of love and romance often enough in her rambling tales that it made his teeth ache, and her unsubtle encouragement of the arrangement between him and the Warden used to make him laugh cynically.

He wasn't laughing now.

He cursed softly and fluently in Antivan. He had entered this liaison with eyes wide open, sure of himself and the path he had followed; now he found himself stumbling blind from an unexpected turn... or maybe, in his arrogant foolishness, he had simply gone too far the path.

The Warden was partly to blame for this, he knew: ever since he was spared his life and allowed to join the Grey Wardens' cause against the Blight, his lover had been nothing but one surprise after another. Zevran had never been treated with such respect, such  _consideration_  before, not without a heavy price attached to it. The Warden actually  _cared_  for him, and had — to his eternal confusion — never asked for anything in return.

As for their entanglements... it was supposed to be temporary, something to occupy his attention and to satisfy his urges while he remained under the protection of the Grey Wardens. But the Warden had proved to be a surprise in that as well: a novice in sexual relations between men, yet possessing enough confidence in himself that Zevran found no difficulty in teaching him this new way of finding pleasure.

More than that, he was a wonderful lover, demanding enough to keep Zevran on his toes, but with just enough initiative to not make him feel pressured to perform. A rare and wonderful thing, certainly, even compared to the multitude of lovers that he had slept with over the years.

But it was more than just the attraction of a worthy bed partner that kept him by his lover's side. It was the Warden's very presence that he craved; the brilliant grins and the even more brilliant mind, the sharp tongue and sly humour, the firm resolve and grim determination, and beneath all of that the compassionate heart that cared so deeply for his country, his people.

He shuddered, feeling suddenly cold.  _You are a foolish one, Zevran, and more soft-hearted than you think._

Unbidden, Wynne's question to him when they had been climbing up the path to Haven echoed in his mind:  _If you are no longer in danger of being hunted by your fellow assassins, would you turn on the Warden to regain their favour?_

He thought about it, thought about taking his blades and stabbing them, deep, through the Warden's heart, thought about watching as the life leeched out of those bright, brilliant eyes...

Felt a painful wrench in his own heart at the thought.

No. He could not, would not, do that. He had turned his blade in betrayal once; his blood ran cold at the thought of doing so again.

 _What if the Warden was there when the Crows greet you, Zevran?_   _Would he trust you enough to let you be?_

He thought about that. Grimaced. Found himself unable to find a sure answer regarding how the Warden would feel about that.

He wasn't even sure how  _he_  felt about the Warden.

With a sigh, he rose to his feet and started towards the door. Little he could do about that now, when there were too many things tangled up in his own mind. The only thing he  _could_  do, he thought to himself as he reached for the latch, was to tread softly and lightly, and hopefully not find himself fall into some indescribable pit of doo-

"I have heard so many tales of you."

The soft, feminine voice drifted from beyond the door.

Zevran blinked. His hand froze over the latch.

"Is that so?" the next voice was deeper, distinctly masculine. With the all-too-familiar accents of a highborn noble.  _Warden._

A high, sharp-pitched giggle from the woman. "Oh, yes, it is hard to not hear tales of the Demon Wolf of Highever. Surely you know that a noble as famed as yourself would be the centre of much gossip, yes?" The Orlesian accent grated over his ears, so different from Leliana's light, melodic lilt. "It is said that he is a handsome, charming man, and most skilled with his...  _sword_." Lewd suggestion dripped off the word. "It makes one curious to know if the rumours are, indeed, true."

_... What the ..._

Frowning, he carefully undid the latch, pulled the door open ever-so-slightly — thanking the Maker that the hinges were well-oiled enough to be silent — and peered through the cracks.

The Warden was leaning against the wall opposite, arms crossed over his chest, his face expressing nothing but bored arrogance.

Standing before him, dainty hands pressing lightly on his chest and a smile lighting up her face, was Arlessa Isolde.

Zevran blinked again. Watched, stunned, as her hands drifted up to grasp the Warden's shoulders.

"Perhaps you would care to indulge my curiosity?" she asked, her smile flirtatious and her eyes far too intent.

"I think not." The Warden all but growled the words, and his eyes were cold chips of ice.

The arlessa laughed again, and – the brazen hussy! – twined her arms about the Warden's neck, pressing her body fully against his. "Come, now," she said in a chiding tone. "I know you have been on the road for a long time,  _mon loup_. No doubt you are lacking in...  _female company_ , travelling in that group of yours."

"I am doing quite fine, thank you."

Isolde's smile widened, as if she had not heard the frosty tones in the Warden's silky voice. "But I am your hostess! A good hostess must tend to the needs of her guests, no?"

 _Bitch._  Zevran bit back a snarl, his hands flexing by his side, longing to reach for the little knife he always wore on his belt and slice her cheating, whoring thro-

She shifted onto her toes, her hands sliding to twine in the Warden's hair, and her mouth fastening over his.

Zevran's vision swam red.

The Warden's hands reached up, encircled Isolde's slender waist. Gripped...

... and harshly pushed her away, breaking the kiss.

His face looked like it was carved from granite, all harsh unyielding planes. But the eyes...

 _Savage fury_  did not begin to describe the emotion burning in them.

"You need to pay a little more attention to the rumours, arlessa," the Warden gritted out, as Isolde stared at him in open-mouthed shock. "It is true that Wolf had many lovers. But he also took care to only have one lover at a time." His hands dropped away, before he crossed them over his chest and bowed. "If you'll excuse me."

With that, he turned on his heels, and strode purposefully away.

The arlessa stared after his retreating back in shock, before Zevran saw her face harden with cold calculation.

"It is that elf you travel with, is it not?"

The Warden froze.

Isolde smiled, no longer flirtatious now, all sharp teeth and spite. "I am not so blind that I did not see how you look at him. Oh, the  _yearning_  in your eyes. Such a charming sight. One could almost believe that you  _love_  him." Her voice dripped with honeyed sweetness, but only a fool could not sense the venom in her words.

The Warden did not turn. But Zevran could see his hands clench into fists.

The laugh that Isolde made was cruelly vicious. "How the mighty have fallen, for you to chase after a mere knife-ear. I heard that he is the son of a common whore as well!" She clicked her tongue, shaking her head. "For a nobleman of your rank and breeding to stoop so low, the elf must be quite skilled as a whore hims-"

She had no chance to finish that sentence.

With a snarl, the Warden whirled. In an eyeblink, he had a hand clenched about the arlessa's neck, pinning her to the wall, while his other hand held a knife pressed to her belly. She gasped, her eyes widening, hands flying reflexively to the one closed over her throat, but the knife pressed harder, and she froze.

"Let this be a warning to you, Arlessa Isolde," he said, the softness of his voice not hiding the vicious menace. "I do not tolerate anyone insulting the people in my care; not you, not the Arl, not the Bannorn, not the King and Queen, not the Grand Cleric, and not even the Maker Himself. Zevran is one of mine, and I treat him with nothing but the respect that he deserves; I advise that you do the same."

The knife shifted away, as did the hand at Isolde's throat; the Warden stepped back, sheathing his knife, his face a mask of cold fury. "Get out of my sight, Isolde, before I slice your throat."

Eyes round and wild, white showing around her irises, Isolde shifted away, her back pressed against the wall. When the Warden did nothing but stare at her, she turned and bolted like a startled rabbit, her footsteps ringing against the stone floor.

The Warden continued to stare after her, his body tensed like a coiled spring, and only when the echoes of her footsteps had faded away did he relax, slumping back against the wall, head dropping and hand reaching up to scrub his face.

Zevran stared at his visibly weary lover, more than a little confused about that exchange; and specifically, about his reaction to said exchange.

Never, in his whole life, had he wanted to do violence to another to the extent that he had when Isolde laid her hands and mouth on the Warden. It wasn't in his nature to be  _that_  vicious, despite the Crow training. He had not wanted to just kill her: he had wanted to hurt her, to make her feel pain so excruciating that she would lose her voice from screaming at him to stop.

Confusion swamped him, sent his thoughts whirling, and it took a while before he realized something else.

The Warden's head was no longer bowed. Instead, it had lifted, and the eyes were staring at the door to the chapel.

Staring at  _him._

Zevran's own eyes widened. He didn't even stop to think; he leapt away, and turned, heading for the  _other_  door out of the chapel, but too late; he heard the Warden's boots ring against the stone floor, and then the door he had been hiding behind swung open.

" _Zevran!_ "

He ignored the name, continued running for the door, his hand reaching for the latch-

A hard hand closed about his upper arm.

He stifled a yelp as he was spun around, so he ended up facing the Warden, a pair of hands gripping his arms and holding him still, sharp eyes staring down at his own.

When had the Warden learned to move so fast?

"Zevran." The Warden's voice was soft, but he could still hear the shock in the words. "How long have you been here?"

He blinked up at his lover's face. Too close, too intent; he felt too conflicted to face those too-knowing eyes right now. A blank mask slipped over his face out of habit. "Long enough."

His toneless voice made the Warden stare at him, and the grip about his arms slackened. He shrugged them off, shifted away, putting a safe distance between himself and the man that had the greatest power to hurt him.

Sharp eyes narrowed at his face. "I was looking for you," the Warden said, his tone almost accusing. "There isn't any guard here: it isn't safe to wander about alone."

Zevran raised a brow. "My dear, I am an assassin, and a well-trained one I might add. I think I can handle my own safety well enough, no?"

"Point taken." The Warden sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry you had to see that."

He sounded frustrated, and more than a little angry. For some reason, that sparked Zevran's own temper. "Really? You looked like you were enjoying yourself." The smile that accompanied those words was false, empty, devoid of any real mirth whatsoever. "There is no need to neglect your own needs because of me, you know. We both know that this is only a temporary thing."

The Warden went still. His face turned as blank as a statue's. Even his voice, when he spoke, sounded flat, devoid of emotion. "What makes you think this is temporary?"

Those reactions alone should had warned Zevran, but he was too wrapped up in confusion and fear and uncertainty and — Maker help him —  _jealousy_  to notice, or even care. "You are a nobleman born and bred, my dear, even if you have joined the Grey Wardens. Surely you would have no shortage of lovers, if you so choose; I would not be upset if you chose to turn your attention elsewhere." A lie, a painful lie, but better than knowing a truth that would hurt even more. "Our agreement was meant to ease our mutual urges, yes? If you choose to seek fulfilment elsewhere, I have no right to ask anything of you." He shrugged, started to turn towards the door.

Only to feel a hand clamp, vice-like, around his wrist.

He stiffened, swung around, his mouth opening to order the Warden to let go...

His eyes met the Warden's. And whatever angry words that had been on his tongue died.

He thought he had seen the worst of his lover's anger; thought that he had judged the other man's temperament well enough to know what he was capable of.

The violent storm that swirled in the Warden's eyes, turning them into feral, vicious orbs, told him that he had  _severely_  underestimated the depths of that temper.

He stared transfixed, stunned prey pinned by the gaze of a much larger predator, before it registered that the man gripping his wrist had not made a move towards him.

He sucked in a breath, summoned his courage, and glared at the Warden. "Let go of me."

The hand on his wrist tightened. "No."

Zevran's eyes narrowed, but the Warden's only reply to that was to smile, very slightly, the merest hint of a curve on his lips. But he still made no move to let go of Zevran, or even to subdue him.

 _A waiting game,_  Zevran realized.  _He is waiting to see what I would do, what I could do..._

So be it. If the Warden wanted to play games, then he would play along.

He swung his free hand, flattened out like a knife, towards his captor's neck, a move meant to incapacitate. The Warden's other hand rose, caught his  _other_  wrist, and gripped hard.

Zevran's eyes widened. The tiny smile on his lover's face similarly widened, turning into a predatory grin.

Snarling, he swung his arms outward, a sudden move that managed to break the Warden's grip on him. He stepped back, spun around, already shifting towards the nearest door.

But the Warden seemed to have expected that; no, Zevran's mind corrected, had been  _waiting_  for that. He dashed forward, arm already flinging out. Zevran was quick, but the Warden had the advantage of greater height, and therefore greater reach; that arm curled around his waist, dragging him backward, yanking him back against a hard and heavy body while another arm wound around his neck and pulled his head up and backwards. His hands slapped against the forearm, a moment too late in blocking that grip.

The arm around his neck tightened, making him cough. "You do realize," the Warden said, in a light tone that was at odds with the anger Zevran could hear thrumming beneath the words, "that I won't let go of you so easily."

Zevran spat a curse, ignoring the question, testing the unyielding grip around his neck and wiggling in an attempt to break free.

"Zevran," the Warden said quietly, "stop struggling."

"When the Maker returns to the Black City," he spat, before bringing both arms up and then sharply swinging his elbows back, jabbing them hard into the Warden's gut at the same time he kicked at the other man's shin. A breath barked out over his head, ruffling his hair, and the arms around him fell away.

He sprinted for the door again, and just barely managed to reach it, but a palm slammed against hard wood, just barely inches from his head, forcing the door closed... an instant before he was suddenly pressed against the door by the Warden's body. The hand that held the door closed dropped down, caught his wrist and pulled his arm up, pinning it beside his head, at the same time his opposite arm was pulled up and pinned as well, so he was well and truly trapped.

"Zevran." Warm breath ghosted over his ear, making his skin prickle. "Why are you running?"

The words, spoken in a voice that still rang with deadly threat, nearly made him shiver; not just from fear, but desire as well. Chagrined by that reaction (Why now, of all times? )he braced his arms against the door and pressed back against the Warden.

The body behind his budged not one inch.

He was helpless, trapped between the immovable wood of the door, and the unyielding muscle and bone of the Warden's body.

A very strange sensation skittered down his spine at the realization that he was well and truly caught.

The Warden had asked him a question, he remembered; he swallowed once, his throat suddenly too tight, and rasped out, "I'm not running."

"Liar." The word was a soft, malevolent whisper in his ear, and he shivered again, suppressing a moan as lips lightly cruised over the sensitive shell. "You're running away, Zevran. You're frightened."

"I'm not-" he started to protest, before teeth closed over the tip of his ear and bit, lightly. This time he failed to suppress a moan, and then a whimper as a wet tongue flicked against that ear.

"Yes, you are," the Warden murmured. "Frightened of me; of yourself, and of what is growing between us; of the feelings growing within you." The mouth that had been nibbling against his ear shifted down and pressed at the hollow just beneath his earlobe in a light, teasing kiss. "You know that this so-called arrangement between us had grown to become something more than that, and you're afraid of what it will become, something that is more complete, more whole; something that will bring you more happiness than you could ever dream of, but only if you dare reach for it."

Zevran felt his face blank, stunned by the Warden's words, but they went on, even as the kisses drifted from his jaw, down the side of his neck and then to his nape. "You're afraid that this might hurt you, that by hoping for more you will find yourself vulnerable to more pain, more grief. You're afraid that this, all that is between us, will make you weaker, that it will make you  _feel._ "

He wasn't sure when he had stopped struggling, when he had relaxed, but the hands pinning his arms lifted away, dropping down to encircle his waist and turn him around, so he was now facing the Warden.

The eyes that looked down into his had calmed somewhat, no longer hardened by anger, but they still held enough feral temper to warn Zevran that a slight push would be enough to unleash that violent rage he now knew the Warden was capable of.

He blinked up at that gaze, before narrowing his own eyes. "You talk as if you know me," he snapped, "or own me."

The Warden's lips curved in a self-mocking smile. "I never 'owned' you, Zevran, and I don't know you as well as I want to." A hand reached up, brushing back a stray lock of blond hair and tucking it behind his ear; a gentle, affectionate gesture that made his heart skip a beat. "You don't have to be afraid of this, Zevran. Or afraid of me." The Warden leaned in, and lips brushed against his temple. "Know this, and remember it: I will never willingly hurt you, nor will I do anything that might cause you pain." A pause. "Well, except the kind of pain that you actually like, but that's not the point I'm trying to make here."

The dry comment startled a laugh out of Zevran. "I'll keep that in mind." He raised his eyes, searching the Warden's face. Saw nothing in them but openness, trust... and an emotion that Zevran could only describe as 'longing'. "What, exactly, do you want from me?"

The tiny smile that had been hovering around the Warden's mouth turned into that sharp wolf's grin. "Everything that you are willing to give, and everything that I can take."

He blinked. Stared. Felt his ears grow more than a little heated. "I'm not sure if I know how to answer that," he said, and was irritated to find that his voice sounded a little shaky.

The grin softened. "I know." The hands around his waist pulled him closer, so that he was flush against the Warden, with only their clothing separating them. "If you can't answer that yet, it's fine. I'm only asking that you take a chance with me, with  _us._ "

The Warden was watching him, his expression one of open expectation, but Zevran was standing close enough to see the shadow of doubt lingering in the keen eyes.

 _He is no less confident in this than I am,_  he realized.  _He knows he can hurt me, but he also knows that I can hurt him as well. Yet he is willing to take that risk, to ask for something more._

The very thought humbled him.

"I don't know what to think," he said, entirely honest.

"You don't have to think too much. Just... trust me in this."

 _Trust._  Again, it came back to trust.

Zevran sighed, closed his eyes, and nodded. "Fine."

He sensed the Warden smile at him, just before arms enfolded him in a hug.

His own arms arose to hug back, although awkwardly so. "You're a crazy man," he muttered into the Warden's shoulder. "What exactly am I to you, that you would risk so much?"

The Warden laughed softly, pulling back. The look in his eyes was teasing, even mischievous. "For that question," he murmured, his grin entirely untrustworthy, "I think actions would serve better than words."

Zevran felt his eyebrows rise, even as an answering grin tugged at his lips. "Oh? And what kind of actions are we talking about here."

The Warden laughed again, but true to what he said, he didn't bother with words. He simply cupped Zevran's chin in his hand, tilted the tattooed face up, and bent down, covering the elf's lips with his own.

_~ to be continued~_


	37. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my grammar fairy/editor, Scarylady1. Your advice and patience are much appreciated.

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 36_

* * *

Zevran was, by nature of his upbringing, a  _very_ cynical man. One did not rise to his level of proficiency and power in the Antivan Crows without being at least suspicious, if not outright paranoid, about the motivations behind people's actions.

Take the way Arl Eamon seemed to welcome their little ragtag team of adventuring misfits with wide open arms, for example. Zevran could imagine Bann Teagan doing so without any sort of motive, but the elder of the Guerrin brothers was an entirely different sort of character; there was a quietly shrewd look in the man's eyes that reminded him of a, slightly more pleasant, Master Ignacio.

It was clear, at least in Zevran's point of view, that the main reason Eamon had been pleasant to the Warden was not because the Warden saved his life, but because the Warden held a good deal of influence over the thoughts and actions of a certain blond-haired warrior.

Eamon wanted someone who had a claim to the throne by blood in order to challenge Loghain's rule, that much was clear, and Alistair was the obvious choice. It was an idea that Alistair was clearly unenthusiastic about, judging from the sullen look on the young man's face when that subject was first brought up in Redcliffe.

The Warden, curiously, had not chosen to comment on Eamon's suggestion. Zevran saw a calculating light in his lover's brilliant eyes as they flicked between Eamon and Alistair, but the Warden had remained silent over the matter.

There were times when Zevran would give his own arm to know what the Warden was thinking; this was one of those times. Unfortunately, despite his subtle questioning, the Warden remained tight-lipped about whatever had been on his mind when Eamon suggested Alistair as the replacement king. So Zevran had reluctantly dropped the subject, much to the Warden's thinly-veiled amusement.

But now...

He watched as the Warden paced restlessly back and forth in front of the fireplace of their shared guestroom at Arl Eamon's Denerim estate. Every inch of the Warden's frame, from his hard eyes, to his tightly-clenched jaw, to his fisted hands, brought to mind a hungry, frustrated, disaffected predator that seemed perfectly, dangerously ready to savage something, anything, that deserved it.

Considering what had happened when Loghain showed up at Eamon's doorstep, Zevran was more surprised that the Warden had, thus far, been this restrained.

Zevran had long known that, beneath the stoic, occasionally charming veneer, the Warden was a fiercely passionate man, and that passion sometimes manifested itself as a vicious temper; witness that scene with Isolde at Redcliffe. His temper rarely slipped its leash, however, and the Warden had been careful to rein it in very tightly.

Until several days ago, that is.

* * *

_From his perch at the top of the steps in the entrance hall, Zevran glanced at Eamon, who was speaking with both the Warden and Alistair in quiet, restrained tones. He noticed the arl's brief but frequent glances towards him, and smiled with amusement._

_Eamon clearly had no idea what to think of Zevran, or his continued presence at the Warden's side. He wasn't surprised; pointy-eared, well-armed, and clearly foreign, he stood out like an Antivan red carnation in this, very Ferelden, city, and the Warden had made no secret of the little 'arrangement' they had between them. Only a blind nug would be able to miss the warm, almost too-heated glances that they often exchanged, or how the Warden always managed to find a way to be near Zevran, far apart enough to not offend social norms but far too close to be called "professional" or even "friendly"._

_Seemingly absently, Zevran's eyes drifted around the room. Nothing unusual or suspicious, and the guards posted at the door seem competent enough._

_The atmosphere, on the other hand, was tense. Charged. The Warden in particular looked ready to jump out of his skin; his eyes kept darting about the room, and his lips were a thin white line._

_"... little choice but to show himself. To oppose us directly," Eamon was saying, and Zevran turned his attention back to the conversation. "He will strike back at us. The only question that remains is_  how soon? _"_

_"Any time now," the Warden muttered. He frowned, drawing in a deep breath, before letting it out in a huff of frustration. "I hate politics," he said, to no one in particular._

_"Really?" Alistair said with false shock. "I thought I was the only one, what with being declared heir to the throne and all."_

_"It is your rightful heritage, Alistair," Eamon said. "Your blood-"_

_"Does not mean that I'd make a good king," Alistair snapped. "Did it even occur to anyone that I might not even_ want  _to be king?" He gave the Warden a glare. "And why are you not saying anything about this? I thought you_   _knew_   _how I felt about all of..._  this."

_"You're the only one who has a stronger claim to the Crown than Loghain or the Queen," Eamon said, before the Warden could reply. "I told you, you have a responsib- "_

_"My_  responsibility  _is to put an end to the Blight," Alistair said, ire flashing in his eyes. "I am a Grey Warden, Eamon, and I cannot be both a King and a Warden at the same time."_

_Eamon's eyes narrowed. "Be reasonable, Alistair; you can't just walk away and let Loghain win. If you do not- "_

_"_ Enough _," the Warden said, sounding equal parts weary and irritated. "I don't like this any more than you do, Alistair, but we don't have a choice."_

_"But- "_

_"I said, enough." The Warden gave Alistair a stern glare. "Right now, we have no alternatives, so unless someone better decides to come along and say hello, you're the only person in the whole of Ferelden who can actually remove Loghain's claim to the throne without having to organize a massacre of the entire Bannorn."_

_Alistair frowned, and then let out a sigh of disgust. "Oh, fine, do whatever you want."_

_"I am_ so _pleased to have your approval."_

 _Zevran chuckled quietly at the Warden's deadpan expression, even as Alistair's lips curved in a half-smile. "Some friend you are," Alistair muttered, although there was no real annoyance in his words. "Abandoning me to the mercy of Ferelden politics? I'm thrilled to know you really are_ that _reliable."_

_"What can I say? I don't like to disappoint," the Warden promptly replied._

_Alistair rolled his eyes and threw a half-hearted punch at the Warden's shoulder. At the precise moment the doors of the main hall were thrown open, and a group of heavily armed people walked in._

_Zevran's eyes fell on the newcomers, and he felt his blood chill._

_Face as hard as stone, Loghain strode towards the three men gathered at the foot of the stairs, flanked by an equally hard-faced woman, and a familiar hook-nosed, beady-eyed man._

_The long months since their last meeting had not been kind to Arl Howe, but he still carried that same air of smug self-importance, still had that vicious glint in his eyes and the cruel sneer that constantly hovered around his mouth._

_Feeling a tight knot of dread form in his belly, Zevran glanced at the Warden, and instantly that dread was replaced with alarm._

_The Warden's face had gone blank, and Zevran saw his eyes glaze over with killing intent, saw the gauntleted hands curl into fists._

_Without thinking, Zevran darted across the room and placed himself at the Warden's side, closing a hand around the Warden's right elbow before that arm could reach up towards the greatsword strapped to his back._

_He felt the Warden tense beneath his hand, before the other man turned to glare at him. Keeping his own face devoid of expression, he shook his head warningly._

_The Warden's eyes flared with temper, but to Zevran's relief, he inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement._

_Satisfied that his lover would not react far too hastily, Zevran stepped back, deliberately letting himself fade into the background, prepared to face what would surely be a colourful confrontation._

* * *

"Colourful", however, turned out to be too mild a word to describe what had happened. Loghain's accusations of treachery, and barely concealed insults, against Eamon were hostile enough, even without the Warden's gritted out comments about Ostagar, but when the Regent had introduced Howe as the Teyrn of Highever, Zevran had been  _very_ glad to be standing close enough to grab the Warden's arm again.

The Warden had not fought the restraining grip, but Zevran had felt the barely checked violence rippling through his lover's body as he snarled about blood rights and hanging. Howe's reaction to the Warden's anger had been snide and insultingly dismissive, his taunts clearly a deliberate attempt to incite the Warden.

It was with considerable relief that the hard-faced woman, Ser Cauthrien, interrupted the little spat before it escalated into a bloodbath, but Zevran did not let go of the Warden until, after several more choice threats to Eamon, Loghain had departed with his little party in tow.

After that 'bracing' encounter, as Eamon put it, the Warden had thrown himself into a frenzy of activity to obtain more resources for their attack against Loghain, beginning with several entertaining (and highly profitable) cloak-and-dagger jobs for a rather shady fellow named Slim Couldry. It brought them coin and not a little infamy, but none of their little escapades seemed to calm the inner turmoil that seemed to be constantly eating at the Warden, and Zevran found himself worrying over his lover's state of mind.

The fact that the Warden kept falling into bed in an exhausted stupor each night did not make Zevran feel any better.

"You know, my dear," Zevran murmured as the Warden continued to pace, "there are better ways to celebrate your new 'title' than to wear down your feet."

"I don't think being called 'Dark Wolf' is exactly worth celebrating," was the quiet, growling reply.

"Why not? Because it reminds you too much of your old 'name'?"

The Warden shot Zevran a glare, but he  _did_  halt, which was the point. "That's not the issue here."

"No," Zevran said in agreement. "But clearly you  _do_ have an issue, or we would be doing something much more...  _productive._ " He let that word roll off his tongue with sensual promise, and punctuated it with a crooked smile as he leaned against a carved post of the large four-poster in their room.

The Warden stared for a moment, brows furrowed in a frown, before he let out a sigh and shook his head. "I'm sorry," he muttered, running his hand through his hair, a gesture Zevran recognized as one the Warden made when stressed. "I hate this... doing nothing, when we should be doing _something_. It  _feels_  wrong." Suddenly, the Warden let out a vicious snarl and turned, slapping his palms on the mantle of the fireplace. "How can I be standing here doing nothing when the murderer who destroyed my family walks free?"

Zevran studied the stiff lines of the Warden's back. "It isn't wise to strike at Howe, with so many allies at his back."

" _I don't care._ " The Warden whirled around, his face a pale mask of fury and hatred. "That man betrayed my father, had my family killed in cold blood, and he flaunts his ill-gotten title in front of me like a back-alley whore flaunts her wares! Yet I stand here, and I cannot do  _anything_  about it!"

"So you would rather get yourself killed in an ineffective attack against him, than to strike a decisive blow?" Zevran snapped. He straightened away from the bedpost to face the Warden squarely, feeling the leash on his own temper start to fray. "Listen to yourself, Warden. Striking him now will not help your cause. This is not you talking."

"Don't you  _dare_  tell me how I should be talking!" the Warden roared. "What gives you the bloody right to govern me?"

The leash snapped.

Zevran didn't even realize that he had stalked to the other side of the room, or that he had reached within arm's length of the Warden, until he heard the loud slapping sound and felt the stinging pain on the back of his hand.

The Warden's head whipped to the side at the force of the slap; the anger of his face was gone, replaced by a shock that mirrored what Zevran felt.

"Enough." Zevran's voice sounded raw and rough to his own ears. "I don't own you, my dear, but you are being a fool."

The Warden blinked; he frowned slightly as he looked up at Zevran, a hand reaching up to rub at the blooming red mark on the side of his face, but he looked more confused than angered.

Sighing, Zevran shook his head as he reached out, grabbed the Warden's wrist, and before the other man could protest he started to pull him towards the door.

He could feel a stare bore into the back of his head, but he steadfastly ignored it. Thankfully, his lover simply followed him without much resistance as he took them both to the small training room in the estate.

It was late in the evening, almost sunset; the room was, as Zevran predicted, completely deserted. Smiling slightly to himself, he pulled the Warden in, and released him to bolt the door securely behind them. When he turned around, he saw that the Warden was looking at him, arms crossed and wearing an expression that looked stuck midway between annoyance and amusement.

"Is there a point to this?" the Warden asked.

Zevran shrugged. His teeth flashed in a vicious smile. "You clearly have a lot on your mind, my dear. I'm thinking a few rounds right here and now would take the edge off your temper, yes?"

"Are you inviting me to  _spar_ with you?"

"You sound surprised," Zevran said with false innocence, making his way to the centre of the cleared space in the room.

"Maybe because I  _am_. Why sparring?"

Zevran laughed as he laced his fingers together and stretched his arms up over his head. "The Crows are harsh on their members, yes? Sometimes we arrange sparring matches, to work off stress. It also helps settle grudges amiably, without actually resorting to killing each other, so it has some practical use." Satisfied that his arms were stretched properly, he let them drop, shaking his hands to loosen up his wrists. "It's all supervised, usually, but since I trust you are not going to try and kill me..." He raised his brows challengingly.

The Warden snorted, but he was rolling his shoulders, his fingers flexing. "Are you sure you really want to do this? I'm half-a-head taller than you are, and far heavier besides."

"My dear, you may have a bit more reach than I do, but I have flexibility, so we are evenly matched, at least physically. I'll say that I even have a slight advantage over you, since your love of oversized weapons means you rarely need to do proper hands-on work."

"... oh, very well." The Warden sighed, shrugged. "Well, if you want to—"

Suddenly the Warden dashed forward, his fist flying towards Zevran in a quick jab. Trained reflexes allowed Zevran to avoid it with a twitch to the side; it roared past his ear, before the hand snapped back.

"— do that, we might as well get started," the Warden finished, his bland voice contradicted by the strangely hungry smile on his face.

Zevran rolled his eyes, before he darted forward and down, dropping below the Warden's guard and flicking his hand out, lightly pressing his knuckles into the Warden's belly.

The Warden danced back, the smile vanishing. "All right, that's below the belt, right there."

"I never claimed to fight fair, my dear." Not wanting to be a still target, he let his feet prowl a few steps to the side; the Warden slid to face him, alert eyes watching him.

They circled warily around each other for only a few heartbeats, but to Zevran it felt like hours; he felt his blood rush in anticipation, the hairs at the back of his neck prickling.

The Warden rushed at him again, and he stepped back, but not enough; the Warden's arm slammed hard into his stomach, making his breath whoosh out. He was swung around, until he was pinned back against the Warden's body, his arms held down by a stronger, thicker one encircling his chest, while a soft laugh ghosted over his ear.

A flash of memory of what happened in Redcliffe, of being caught in a similar embrace, made his heart pound from more than just battle lust.

Except he didn't have his arms pinned down then, which meant the previous method of breaking away would not work. He could slam his head back, but he was loath to break the Warden's nose, and he had no doubt that sort of attack would truly rile the Warden, which was not the point of their sparring.

Smirking, he slid his hand back, between their bodies, and let his fingers close, in both warning and promise, around his lover's balls.

The Warden's reaction was exactly what he wanted; with a yelp, the larger man stumbled back, pushing Zevran away in a hurry.

Laughing, he let the momentum carry him for a while before he firmly planted his feet, facing the Warden with a safe distance between them.

The Warden was staring at him with an incredulous expression. Interestingly, his eyes were darker than they were earlier. "You bastard," the Warden said, his voice just a touch breathless. "That's  _very_ below the belt."

"That was the idea, yes." He watched as the Warden tugged at the waist of his trousers, no doubt to make room for the enticing bulge that was starting to form. He waited until his lover's gaze rose to meet his, and once it did he held it, baring his teeth in a purely predatory smile as, in a slow and deliberate show, he ran two spread fingers up the front of his own trousers to rearrange the hint of an erection there.

He had the pleasure of watching the Warden's eyes go round with shock, before a sharp grin turned them into narrow slits. "Ah, I see. So  _that's_  how you want to play this."

Zevran lifted one shoulder in a nonchalant shrug, knowing that he still had that feral smile on his face and not bothering to hide it. "Nothing gets the blood pumping like a little fighting."

"I could think of several other things," the Warden murmured, wearing a too-intent grin of his own. "But since we're here—" He attacked again, and despite Zevran's hurried retreat, his fist managed to thump against Zevran's chest, making him cough and stumble back several steps. "—we should at least fight properly," the Warden finished, beckoning to Zevran mockingly.

"Fight properly?" Zevran laughed. "Oh, I'll show you how I fight properly—"

He sprung at the Warden, and they started to fight in earnest.

They were, as he had predicted, evenly matched, and despite their best efforts neither of them managed to actually successfully overpower the other. Zevran didn't know how long they had been dancing, but after a long while, where the only sounds in the room were the thuds of flat blows and the hisses of harsh breaths, he soon became uncomfortably aware that his tunic was clinging to his skin where it was dampened with sweat. His cheek ached with what threatened to be a bruise by morning, and there was a throbbing ache in his forearm where he had caught a punch with the full weight of the Warden's strength behind it.

The Warden fared no better, however; the other man often had to flick wet hair out his eyes, and he visibly curled his body protectively over his left side, where Zevran had sent a snapping kick that he had not bothered to blunt. But even in the dim light of late evening, Zevran could see that his eyes still glittered brilliantly with too-sharp intent, and the wolf's grin still held a vicious, wild edge. The bulge in his trousers had swelled to distracting proportions; Zevran's own cock was hard enough to throb beneath the rough wool of his own clothing.

The Warden lunged again; barely thinking, Zevran threw himself forward, towards the charge, ducking at the very last moment and sidestepping neatly past the Warden's hip, letting his hand slide roughly over the other man's stomach as he passed by.

Not letting the Warden recover from the momentum, he dropped down, his leg outstretched and swinging around in a wide arc. His ankle hooked around one of the Warden's, and he only needed a light tug to send the far-heavier man sprawling face-down on the floor. He pounced, straddling the Warden's waist and, before the other man could react, he grabbed the Warden's right arm and jerked it up and back as far as it could go, while his other hand grabbed a fistful of hair and pressed the side of the Warden's face down onto the cold stone.

"Ow!" the Warden gasped, thrashing beneath Zevran, whose response was to yank the arm up a little higher. With a hissing sound, the Warden stilled, breathing harshly through clenched teeth.

Lips twisted in a lopsided smile, Zevran leaned down to nip half-playfully, half-mockingly, at the shell of the Warden's ear. "Yield?"

"You damned son of a bitch," the Warden gritted out.

"Son of a whore," Zevran corrected, amused despite the rush of blood demanding that certain  _needs_  be satisfied, and the heated pressure of the Warden's back against the hardness of his erection. "I didn't know my mother long enough to say for certain that she is, in fact, a bitch."

The Warden snorted out a laugh. "Fair point. All right, I'll yield."

Zevran smirked, giving the ear one last nip, before straightening and starting to loosen his grip—

—and suddenly he was on his back, the impact of his head hitting the floor making him see stars, and the Warden's face was a bare inch above his, the manic gleam in the other's eyes made more intimidating by their closeness

"Not," the Warden whispered, his breath flowing hot above Zevran's mouth, before claiming that mouth in a hard, demanding kiss.

No tenderness here, just a fierce demand of lips and teeth and tongue that was savage enough to be almost bruising.

Zevran laughed into the kiss, a wild sound that had nothing to do with mirth and everything to do with pure excitement, and he grabbed the Warden's hair with both hands, pulling them closer, deeper.

The Warden was a hot, heavy weight above him as hands reached down and pulled Zevran's tunic up as high as it could go without breaking their kiss, callused fingers leaving trails of heat over damp skin as the tunic ended up bunched under his arms, exposing his belly and most of his chest. It didn't take long for the wet fabric to feel uncomfortable; Zevran broke off for a moment to hastily pull it off him and throw it aside, before he reached for the Warden and did the same to the other man's tunic.

The Warden didn't struggle, but only long enough that Zevran could pull the sodden wool off. It barely slipped out of his fingers before the Warden fell full length onto him again, burying his face in the side of Zevran's neck and drawing parted lips lightly down from a pointed ear to a sharp collarbone, before he simply... stayed there, panting harshly over the very top of Zevran's chest, the sensation of hot breath over rapidly-cooling sweat making Zevran shiver from more than the chill of the stone floor pressing against his back. The hard length of the Warden's cock rested fully alongside his, the thick material of their breeches doing nothing to dampen the overwhelming heat of his lover's body.

"Warden," he hissed, grabbing the much broader shoulders hovering above him in an attempt to push the other man off so they could strip properly—

Except the Warden chose that moment to buck his hips, biting  _hard_ into Zevran's shoulder at the same time, the dual sensations of pain and pleasure making Zevran yelp, and then suddenly they were  _moving_ , the Warden's hips grinding down against his, seemingly without any regard for the clothing they still wore. "Warden!" Zevran gasped, his hands grabbing, clawing, at the Warden's back, summoning up his rapidly vanishing wits to protest, "We don't have to—"

But it was easy, so easy,  _too_  easy to just let his body undulate of its own accord, matching the Warden's rhythm, and the friction was brutal to the point of bordering  _pain_ _,_  and it was too hot, and too much, and the sheer  _passion_  of it destroyed whatever objections he could think of. Groaning, he threw his head back, hands sliding down to grab the Warden's flexing behind as he bucked up against the other man. The Warden bit his shoulder again, harder this time, and his hip pushed back against Zevran's.

 _What is this now, rutting against each other like a pair of untrained bucks? Surely there are better ways to take your pleasure,_  Zevran heard a mental voice admonish him, at the same time his hazy, scattered mind dimly told him that maybe this roughness was what the Warden needed, and then he gave up thinking altogether and instead fell back into the familiar rhythms of physical intimacy, breaths coming out in harsh pants as they both strove for immediate gratification, their arms and legs everywhere and Zevran could easily turn this into a much more graceful dance with a few practiced moves, but he simply couldn't stop—

Lightning raced up his spine, and the last threads of his control snapped; with a harsh shout he came hard enough that his mind blanked, at the same time the Warden's teeth sank hard enough into his shoulder for him to feel the burn of torn skin as the other man let out a throbbing cry of his own, their cocks jumping and pulsing and shuddering against each other, and then it was done.

When Zevran felt his mind drift back lazily, he was pressed down onto the cold floor, the Warden sprawled half over him and half beside him. His breeches felt sticky in certain places, and later he would be  _very_  irritated in what he had just done in a perfectly good pair of breeches, but at the moment he simply continued to catch his breath, a hand running absently over the Warden's back.

"... Maker's breath," the Warden growled out breathlessly.

"Hmmm," Zevran replied, feeling a smile curve his mouth. Rolling to one side, he glanced down at the Warden, feeling more than a little amused. "Well, now, that was rather exciting, don't you think?"

The Warden stared at him in what, under normal circumstances, would be an incredulous expression, but the laziness of his recent orgasm simply gave him a mildly-puzzled look. But that frenzied, too-sharp edge that had been haunting the Warden for days was finally, blessedly gone. "That wasn't part of your plan, was it?"

"Maybe, maybe not," Zevran said lightly, and chuckled as the Warden half-heartedly swatted at him. "I certainly didn't plan to gain a few new bite marks."

Immediately the Warden looked ashamed. "Oh, dear. I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

Zevran leaned over and lightly kissed the Warden's words away, tongue swiping out to taste the leftover tang of his own blood before he drew back. A distinctly dark part of him shivered at the taste; a part of him that he determinedly shoved aside.  _Not now._  "Ah, my dear, I've had worse. It's nothing more than a surface wound." He reached up and touched the most recent bite mark, feeling the skin already starting to crust over. "It'll heal well enough on its own, I think."

"You  _think?_ "

"... perhaps that was a wrong choice of words." Before the Warden could argue further, he lightly cupped the Warden's face, thumb brushing over a high cheekbone. "Do you feel better now?"

The Warden was silent for a long while, his eyes losing focus. Zevran waited, patiently, as his lover appeared to quietly examine his thoughts. "... yes," he said, eventually. Eyes clearing, he glanced at Zevran, quirking his lips in the barest of smiles. "Yes, I think so. Thank you."

"It was entirely my pleasure," Zevran purred. He sat up, grimacing as he felt the mess in his breeches shift. "Well, since we are quite done here, why don't we retire to our room and freshen up a little, hm?"

The Warden made a disgusted sound, sitting up as well. "A bath," he announced, as he got to his feet. "And food. I'm starving."

"That I can agree with," Zevran said, grabbing their tunics, tossing the much larger one in the Warden's direction. Without really thinking about it, he glanced back at the spot where they were lying down, and he felt himself snicker. The stone was shiny with sweat, and the shapes they made left no doubt about what had just happened in anyone with half a brain. "Now that will be something for the guardsmen to see when they return here in the morning."

"Well, we can't have  _that_ happening." The Warden let out a laugh of his own as he dropped his own tunic on the marks and swiped it across them with his foot.

By the time they left the room, quietly chuckling to themselves, the only remaining imprint was in their minds.

_~ to be continued ~_


	38. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to SiaLater, Elysium_fic and ambientwhispers for catching my errors and telling me how to tame them.

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 37_

* * *

 

They were being followed.

Zevran could feel the prickling of eyes watching them, could see glimpses of shadows where none should be at the edges of his own watchful gaze.

Behind him, he knew Leliana had already drawn her bow, holding it ready for a possible ambush. Even Morrigan was tense and wary, her golden eyes glimmering with suspicion as she muttered dark curses under her breath.

Only the Warden seemed oblivious to all of this as he strode purposefully down the narrow alley; but then again, the Warden had other things on his mind. Since that elven maid, Erlina showed up on Arl Eamon's doorstep, with a plea for rescue by Queen Anora, he had allowed  _nothing_  to dissuade him from heading out to fulfill said plea — not because the Queen was asking for his help, but because she was held in the same estate that Howe currently resided in.

"Warden," he murmured, jogging a little to keep up with the ground-eating strides of the Warden's much longer legs. "Are you quite sure this is wise? One does not walk into a dark alley without expecting to be ambushed, yes?"

"This is the fastest way to the Arl of Denerim's estate," the Warden said flatly. "The longer we delay this rescue, the lesser our chances of success."

 _Success at what? Rescuing the Queen? Or killing Howe?_  "We need not be in such a hurry to rescue this Queen of yours, surely," he replied. "It's in the Regent's best interests to keep her alive, is it not?"

"Too late to back out," the Warden said. "This path only has one exit, and we're already halfway through."

"What?" Morrigan exclaimed. "Are you saying that we are walking down a path with no route of escape, in a city full of enemies? Are you  _mad?_ "

The Warden barely spared her a glance as he lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. "Unless they decide to drop a high dragon on our heads, I doubt that any sort of interruption would be much trouble." He rounded a corner, emerging into a small open courtyard, and was already heading towards the stairway at the other end —

— where glittering spikes awaited, hidden beneath the thick layer of muck and grime that often covered Denerim's back alleys.

Hissing a barely-restrained curse, Zevran reached out and grabbed the Warden's arm, pulling him back. "Stop, Warden, you're walking right into a –"

A lithe, swarthy man stepped out of the shadows at the very top of the stairs. "And so here is the mighty Grey Warden at long last," the man said, grinning broadly. "The Crows send their greetings once again."

...  _Trap._ Zevran felt a cold coil of dread tighten around his chest as he looked up at an all-too-familiar face.

 _Andraste guide me. I did not want this._ Sucking in a breath, he stepped around to stand by the Warden's side, his eyes never leaving the Crow assassin who had ambushed them. "And so they sent you, Taliesen?" he asked. "Or did you volunteer for the job?"

His voice was cold, the voice of one professional assassin speaking to another. His words rang hollow and foreign in his ears; had it been truly so long since he had spoken to another Crow?

"I volunteered, of course." Taliesen's tone was light and mocking, as he had always sounded. He was still smiling, but his eyes were hard and ruthless as he stared down at Zevran. "When I heard that the great Zevran had gone rogue, I simply had to see it for myself."

Zevran's lip curled back in a sneer. "Is that so? Well here I am, in the flesh."

Behind him, he could hear Morrigan and Leliana shifting, carefully moving into positions where their arrows and magic could do the most damage. The Warden remained still and silent, an armour-clad statue, but Zevran could feel the coiled tension in his body, prepared to strike out if the Crows attack.

Abruptly, the smile vanished from Taliesen's face, and he looked sombre, almost sad. "You can return with me, Zevran," he said, his voice gentle and cajoling. "I know why you did this, and I don't blame you. It's not too late. Come back and we'll make up a story. Anyone can make a mistake."

Taliesen was looking at him with wide eyes, his expression pleading. Zevran remembered that expression well; it was one Taliesen often wore when he sometimes slipped into Zevran's bed, haunted by nightmares or guilt or the simple despair of knowing that as Crows, they never truly owned their own lives.

It made Zevran's throat tighten to see that familiar expression on a man that he considered a friend, and more.

Then he found his view half-blocked by the bright glow of a silverite pauldron.

"Zevran belongs with me, now." The Warden's voice was a harsh growl as he shifted to stand in front of Zevran.

What Zevran could see of Taliesen's face twisted with mirth as the swarthy human laughed derisively. "You don't even know who you're talking about, do you?" he taunted.

The Warden said nothing. He simply lifted his arm away from his side in a protective,  _possessive_  gesture, further shielding Zevran.

The glint of the thin chainmail hidden beneath the heavy, nigh-impenetrable plate caught Zevran's attention, as the raised arm revealed that vulnerable gap at the Warden's armpit.

_A very small window of opportunity, for an assassin faced with a heavily-armored foe. Wait till your opponent raises their arm to strike you, and then get close to him, slipping a dagger into that gap and killing him with a decisive stab into their lungs. But your opponent, unless he is a fool, will always be moving, so keep your eyes sharp and your mind aware, so you can find that window, and take it as quickly as you can._

_It's not too late._

Yes. It would be easy, so very easy, for him to just close the gap between the Warden and himself, and swiftly thrust a dagger into that spot. It would be a fast, quick kill. Kill the Warden, and he can rejoin the Crows.

Too easy.

He glanced up, saw the Warden looking at him. There was a quiet,  _expectant_  look in his eyes, as if he...

Zevran stared back, his eyes narrowing as an unpleasant thought occurred to him... and he made his decision.

Feeling both sad and relieved, he turned his gaze back up to look at Taliesen.

_You don't even know who you're talking about, do you?_

"And neither do you, Taliesen," he murmured to himself, before raising his voice. "I'm sorry, old friend, but the answer is 'no'. I am not coming back..." His hands had already reached back, drawing the lyrium-etched daggers from the scabbards that were strapped to his back. "... and you should have stayed in Antiva."

Taliesen's eyes widened. In shock or horror, Zevran didn't know. Didn't care, as he darted forward, dashing up the steps, intent only on the kill.

He heard shouting as assassins leaped from their hiding spots, and his companions attacked, bolts of magic and fiery arrows sailing over his head to strike down the lightly-armored warriors racing down the steps. He dodged the flailing arms and the weapons at the end of them as screams of agony rang in his ears, combining with the cacophony of the Warden's battle cries and the clashing of sword against armor. But his eyes, his focus, was only on the man at the very top of those stairs.

At last, he was close enough to see the cold resolve in Taliesen's eyes... and then the fight began in earnest.

He and Taliesen had been partners for years, and with good reason; the two of them were equals in almost every way. They trained together, fought together, ate together, and slept together. Their sparring matches were more like extended dances together, their blades making complex patterns as they thrust and parried.

They had always been careful to avoid hurting each other then.

But not now.

Zevran rarely let the bloodthirsty side of his assassin's mind show; it was too dark, too dangerous to be given free rein, and he had made foolish mistakes from not being careful about controlling it. But now, as his daggers and Taliesen's crossed with the sharp clashing sound of metal scraping against metal, he embraced that darker half of his nature, letting himself fall with it. Into a world no bigger than the blood-and-shit-stained ground beneath his feet, and the wild flashes of deadly metal flying around him.

He and Taliesen were equals when they worked together.

But not now.

He would not remember the details later; the bloodlust had engulfed his mind and left him little space to think about anything more than this one fight for survival. But he would remember that Taliesen seemed slow and clumsy to him, when in his memories Taliesen was always fast and light on his feet. He would remember that each movement of his former friend seemed ridiculously easy to predict, even though he remembered that one of the reasons he loved to spar against Taliesen was his ability to be unpredictable in a fight.

Taliesen, he realized, was no longer his equal, but  _lesser_. A weakling who was almost unworthy of his time.

His heart soared with glee at the ease of the fight, even as it plummeted to form a cold, hard lump at the base of his belly.

Taliesen was tiring; Zevran could hear the harsh, panting breaths, could see the sheet of sweat glimmering over the sun-bronzed skin. Each strike at him grew more and more careless. More and more desperate.

He ducked, dodged,  _danced_ away from the flashing blades with the ease of a master assassin against a raw trainee. He simply bided his time until Taliesen reached too far, and he struck.

Zevran was sure that his face mirrored Taliesen's shocked expression as Zevran's blade sank deep into the side of his neck.

Blood rushed out, warm and red, over his blade and his arm, before he wrenched his dagger free.

Taliesen made no move to stop the bleeding. He simply dropped to his knees, his daggers falling to clatter beside him, his expression still shocked, his eyes still fixed on Zevran's. Zevran could see his own eyes reflected in them, and he knew that they were cold, merciless; the eyes of a killer.

Then Taliesen fell forward on his face, and he was gone.

Zevran let out a breath that he hadn't realized he was holding, and the haze of bloodlust thinned enough that he heard the shouts behind him, and the explosive burst of a stray fireball.

Strange how the other assassins had ignored his fight with Taliesen, but he decided that it was simply because the Warden posed too much of a threat to them, and that the bounty on the Warden's head simply made him the more valuable target.

Not that they were having much luck against him, he noted as he quietly stabbed a pair of luckless fools at the edge of the chaos surrounding the Warden. He cut a bloody swath through the men and women who tried to swarm him, a bringer of gloriously violent death. Assassins, as a rule, were generally poor fighters, and the almost painfully easy way the Warden overwhelmed them in close combat proved it. With Morrigan and Leliana's help, defeating the rest of them was a ridiculously easy task.

Zevran even felt a little shame for his profession as he sank a blade into the last man's gut and up to his lungs, before leaving the man to die, choking on his own blood.

The alley was eerily silent after the brief chaos that had erupted. Zevran half-expected the guard to show up, but he wasn't really surprised that not a single soul seemed to have noticed the noise.

Or...

He turned his gaze up to the top of the stairs, to where Taliesen still lay. His blood had begun to run down the steps, forming little waterfalls. It was an almost pretty sight.

… knowing Taliesen, the ones most likely to have eyes and ears near this alley had their palms greased with silver, if they were not simply disposed of. Taliesen had always been the cautious one, preferring to strike from the shadows rather than take any unnecessary risk...

"Zevran?" the Warden murmured, his voice close.

Zevran looked away and found the Warden standing near, holding his helmet under one arm. His expression was calm, almost relieved; he wasn't even sweating more than usual. Zevran held the Warden's gaze for a moment, before looking up at Taliesen again, knowing the Warden's eyes would follow his.

"And there it is," he murmured, just loud enough so only the Warden could hear him. "Taliesen is dead, and I am free of the Crows."

 _Free._  The word tasted strange in his mouth, but it rolled out from his tongue with unexpected ease. Was this how freedom felt? He didn't know if the mixture of guilt and regret and strange excitement churning in his gut was "freedom", but he supposed it would do.

He turned back towards the Warden. "They will assume that I am dead along with Taliesen. So long as I do not make my presence known to them"— _and no one tells them of my presence,_  he added silently—"they will not seek me out."

The Warden had been studying Taliesen's body as Zevran spoke, his expression impassive; at his last words, piercing eyes turned to meet his. "That's a good thing, right?"

Zevran couldn't help but smile a little mischievously. "A  _very_  good thing. It is, in fact, what I had hoped for ever since you decided not to kill me." A filthy lie; judging from the Warden's raised eyebrow and quirked lips, it wasn't a very convincing one either.

Shrugging, and mentally making a note to practice his false face more often, he went on, "I suppose it would be possible for me to leave now, if I wished. I could go far away, somewhere where the Crows would never find me." His tone was deliberately light and carefree; his mind, however, was not. He had been watching the Warden carefully when he said those words, and he saw the little flash of uncertainty and hurt, before it was hidden again beneath that too-grim mask. His breath hitched, the barely acknowledged thought floated past,  _Don't send me away, don't send me away!_

And that decided the matter of where he would be spending his freedom. Or was it more chains? Velvet wrapped, perhaps, but chains, nonetheless. "... I think, however, that I could also stay here. I made an oath to help you, after all. And saving the world seems a worthy task to see through to the end, yes?"

This time, the Warden didn't mask his reaction very well; his eyes widened, and his jaw dropped, briefly, before he blinked and looked away, his hand running through his hair. "I..." The lump at the Warden's throat bobbed as he visibly swallowed. "... I would be glad to have you stay." Zevran quietly let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The words were spoken very quickly and softly, while the Warden continued to inspect a distant wall as if it was the most interesting thing in the entire world.

Zevran was grateful for that, at least. If the Warden had actually been looking at him, he might have seen the smile that had briefly stretched across Zevran's face.

_He wants me to stay._

He should feel threatened, or even frightened. Yet he felt as if he had suddenly hurdled over some unexpected, insurmountable obstacle that he had been struggling against for years. He felt as if he had somehow won. That he had  _triumphed._  He felt like he could single-handedly take on every Crow Master in Antiva all at once, and defeat every one of them.

An unlikely thing, but it was good to imagine it, even for a while. And considering that the Warden had turned away from the wall and was now watching him intently, he was clearly expecting some kind of answer from Zevran. "Then stay I shall. I'm with you until the very end."

The Warden stared at him, one eyebrow slightly raised, his eyes narrowed. His mouth was already to curve into a familiar, unmistakable grin. Only then did Zevran realize  _what_  he had said, and what it might have sounded like. "... provided that you do not tire of me first," he added quickly, mentally cursing at the Warden's perverse ability to take his words and twisting them to suit the Warden's own needs. "Or I die. Or you die. But there you go."

The Warden laughed softly, shaking his head. "If you say so, Zevran," he said.

A light, girlish giggle saved Zevran from having to think of a reply to  _that_. "Oh, just look at you two." Leliana giggled again, her hand coming up to hide her mouth. "You two are simply too adorable."

"Yes, yes, standing around talking about unimportant things in the middle of an alley littered with rubbish and corpses." Morrigan's drawl was dripping with scorn. "I can't believe we're wasting time here in this filthy alley while you two make sheep's eyes at each other."

"Well,  _I_ think it's sweet," Leliana said.

Morrigan opened her mouth, clearly prepared to argue, but the Warden let out a long-suffering sigh and dryly said, "I do believe the two of you have better things to do than to watch something that's strictly none of your business. We  _do_  need enough coin to survive, after all, and whatever valuables that these poor men and women are carrying aren't going to magically appear in our own pockets."

Morrigan gave the Warden a long, narrow-eyed glare, but to Zevran's relief and amusement, she made a sound not unlike a boiling teakettle, spun sharply on her heels, and all but stomped off towards the corpse that was furthest from them in the alley. Apparently, even the witch knew when to obey the Warden's commands. After giving the Warden a rather unsure smile, Leliana hurried off after Morrigan, possibly so that she could calm the other woman down.

Zevran shook his head, not understanding Leliana's inability to realize how futile it was to make Morrigan  _not_  angry. An attempt to put out a forest fire with a tear would have taken less effort _._

A hand lightly touched his shoulder, reminding him that there were other concerns besides the antics of two strange women. "Do you need help dealing with Taliesen's body?" the Warden murmured.

Zevran looked up at the Warden, saw the concern in his eyes, before he looked up at where Taliesen's body lay, thought... "I think I'll check the body myself." He gave the Warden a mirthless, tight-lipped smile. "He is my kill, after all. You need not dirty your hands with him."

The Warden's eyes narrowed a little at that remark, but he nodded. "As you wish." The hand on his shoulder squeezed briefly before dropping away. "Don't take too long; the Queen's life is still in danger, and we have yet to rescue her."

Zevran inclined his head, and turned, heading up the stairs –

"Zevran?"

The questioning tone made him stop and turn around. The Warden was silent for a moment, frowning down at the ground as he tugged at his hair, before he sighed and looked up at Zevran. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry. Killing him must have been difficult."

Many months ago, Zevran might have nodded, saying that he agreed with the Warden. But now...

He felt his lips purse in a tight line as he shook his head. "He wanted you to die. I would have never allowed it."

He saw the Warden blink, but he turned around and quickly bounded up the steps, seemingly intent on getting to Taliesen's body.

He didn't want the Warden to see the sudden surge of rage that made his lips curl back in a fierce snarl.

The white-hot anger that blazed through him now startled and puzzled him. But the very idea of his Warden dying, or even  _harmed_  by another Crow... He'd make the streets of Antiva run red with blood if that ever happened.

He'd dropped to his knees beside Taliesen's body, but the haze of rage in his mind had distracted him from doing any more than stare, unseeing, at Taliesen's face. He exhaled through his teeth, his breath escaping in a long hiss, forcing the rage to the back of his mind. Now was not the time for him to be thinking about where the anger came from, or  _why_  the anger existed in the first place.

Muttering vile curses under his breath, he began to methodically search Taliesen's pockets. As he'd expected, Taliesen carried very few possessions with him; there was nothing on him that tied him to the Crows. He would have a few tattoos inked on his skin that showed his true profession, but the marks were a Crow secret and no outsider would have recognized him. The only clues hinting that he was no normal mercenary were the bottles of poison strapped to his belt, but such poisons were not exactly rare, and easy enough to brew with the right recipe and ingredients.

Vaguely disappointed at the lack of valuables, he grabbed the poisons for himself, and upturned the worn, battered purse he found hooked on Taliesen's belt over his hand, emptying the few copper pieces it carried into his palm before dropping it on the ground...

The odd  _clink_  the purse made as it hit the cobblestones did not escape his notice.

Zevran frowned, glanced at the purse. The thing was made entirely of leather; it could not possibly have made any sort of metallic noise. But the sound was unmistakable, if very faint.

Picking up the purse again, he re-inspected it. This time he carefully ran his hand along its sides, and found a side that felt a little bulkier than the rest, heard that clinking sound again.  _Of course._ "A hidden pocket. Clever." Smiling slightly, he took out a knife and lightly sliced through the leather, revealing that there was indeed a hidden pocket sewn into the side of the purse, containing a few silver pieces and...

He blinked as the glint of worn gold winked up at him.

Holding his breath, not daring to believe his eyes, he reached into the pocket, and lifted up the gold earring hidden amongst the silver coins.

He stared at the piece of jewelry he now held delicately in his fingers. The earring was a finely made thing, gold wire twisted into a teardrop shape, the widest part of the earring holding a single, perfectly round, inky-black pearl. It was the sort of jewelry that the more fashionable (and wealthy) men in Antiva liked to wear; small and simple enough to be worn everyday, but clearly valuable enough to be a strong statement of the bearer's wealth.

It was an earring that he remembered very well.

He had taken the earring as part of his first successful mission together with Taliesen, he remembered. Their Master at the time had allowed them to keep the earring, if only because it was too distinctive to be sold off. Zevran use to wear it always, as a mark of his success and because Taliesen said it looked good on him. He had left his earring beside Taliesen's bed, right after he took that suicidal contract to kill the Wardens and just before he departed for the harsh, cold lands of Ferelden. It had pained him to leave behind one of the very few things he could truly call his own, but it was the most effective way of leaving a wordless message that he would never be returning to Antiva.

Zevran glanced at Taliesen's dead, unseeing eyes. He could only think of one reason why his fellow Crow brought the earring with him; the other man clearly expected Zevran to come back to the Crows with him.

_Taliesen, you fool._

Blinking away the unexpected stinging in his eyes, he pocketed away the coins and the earring. No matter; their partnership had severed the moment Zevran left Antiva, seeking his own death. And now Taliesen was dead.

"Zevran!" The Warden called. "If you're done, we should leave this place before the guardsmen get here."

"I'm done!" he shouted back over his shoulder. Looking at Taliesen again, he let out a sigh, and gently closed Taliesen's eyes. "Be at peace, my friend," he murmured under his breath as he got to his feet. "And if the Maker does exist... may you find your place beside Him, wherever He may be."

With those words, he turned his back on Taliesen – the last tie to his past with the Crows – and to his Warden.

To his future.

The Warden's expression was quietly concerned as Zevran approached him, but he said nothing when they both headed away towards the other end of the alley. Zevran was grateful for the silence; it allowed him to think.

To feel. To let this strange feeling of elation and relief and quiet fear, this...  _freedom_  infuse him, become part of him.

He felt a rueful smile cross his face. It was strange and not a little intimidating to imagine that he was free of the Crows at last, when he had thought that he would be fated to die as one. He'd spent so many years caged by his heritage as a bastard and his upbringing as an assassin for so long... with Taliesen out of the way, the Crows had no real hold over him. Ignatio still knew he lived, but the sly old fox wasn't likely to support any Master who decided to hunt him down and finish him off. Although the old man wouldn't help Zevran either; Ignatio was far too pragmatic and self-serving to take  _any_  side except his own.

He was both free of the Crows, and unable to rely on them any longer. Truly free and yet truly alone. A frightening set of thoughts. But it was better than living under the constant threat of being killed, of being harmed... and he doubted that he would ever be truly alone, not after what he'd been through for these past few years. Leliana was the closest thing to a true friend he had ever known, and even though they might disapprove of his general behaviour, he never doubted that Alistair and Wynne wouldn't hesitate to help him, being the bleeding-hearts they were. He travelled in strange company nowadays, yes, but they were good company.

And for all of that, he only had one handsome Fereldan to thank.

 _His_  handsome Fereldan.

He glanced up at the Warden, studied the austere planes of the other man's profile. There was little doubt that he was indebted to the man. Again. Possibly forever this time. A part of him still winced at the idea, but he found that he didn't mind it as much as he thought he would. A frightening thought, that he would allow himself to be indebted in this way... but there was little he could do about it, except thank the Warden for his freedom.

_But how?_

He frowned to himself, realizing that he had no idea what the Warden would accept in thanks. Words felt too mundane, yet he doubted he had anything material that was worthy enough to give the Warden.

What would the Warden want from him, really?

The Warden's voice, smug with arrogance but soft with tenderness, suddenly echoed in his mind:  _"Everything that you are willing to give, and everything that I can take."_

As when he had first heard them, the memory of those words made his face heat with something he would  _never_  call 'embarrassment', even to himself.

But it did give him a clue to what the Warden might want.  _Sentiment._  Silly as it seemed, the Warden did seem like the sort of man who would appreciate the thought behind a gift more than the value of the gift itself. Zevran grimaced. That... narrowed his options quite a bit. He was sure he could find a perfectly fine gift at a shop like the Wonders of Thedas, but it wouldn't be the  _right_  gift. Not for this. Not for the Warden.

What, then?

The Warden was turning his head, his eyes searching their surroundings as they continued to make their way through the maze of Denerim's dark, dank alleys. At certain angles, Zevran could see the hint of a small dent in the Warden's earlobe.

He remembered that story of how the Warden came to have pierced ears. How, apparently, he had been a very sickly child when he was young, and his "fussy and overbearing" mother had, on the suggest of his Nan, pierced his ears and hung silver horn-shaped earrings as "a ward against the evil eye". The Warden stopped wearing them when he grew old enough to think for himself, but the piercings never fully closed. Zevran remembered the wistfulness and deep, sorrowful regret in the Warden's voice; the clear sign that, despite the many months since losing his family, and even after that confrontation with his father's shade before Andraste's sacred ashes, the Warden still longed to have even a small reminder of his family with him, even though they may be "embarrassing bits of metal".

Quite suddenly, without really thinking about it, he closed his hand around the Warden's wrist, stopping him. Before the Warden could react, his other hand reached into his pocket, pulled out the gold-and-pearl earring, and pressed it into the Warden's palm. "Here... it seemed an appropriate moment to give you this."

The Warden stared at him for a while, before spending a much longer time studying the delicate earring in his hand.

"... Jewelry, huh?" The Warden frowned. "Not very... manly."

The complete bafflement of the Warden's tone made Zevran smile; both with amusement, and with relief. At least there wasn't any outright rejection; he wasn't sure he could take the humiliation. "No? I've worn it for years, myself, though perhaps standards are a little different in the north? I acquired it on my very first job with the Crows," Zevran explained. "A Rivaini merchant prince, and he was wearing a single, jeweled earring when I killed him." He smirked. "In fact, that's about all he was wearing." Simple, concise, and truthful without giving too much away. Let the Warden come to his own conclusions about what had happened. "I thought it was beautiful and took it to mark the occasion. I've kept it since..." His throat felt too tight; he swallowed slightly, and went on: "... and I'd like you to have it."

Somewhere at the back of his mind, a voice protested, very loudly, that giving that earring – one of his most precious possessions – to the Warden was a bad,  _bad_  idea, but he determinedly shoved that voice away and told it to shut up. If there was anyone he knew who deserved earring more than he, he reasoned, that person would be the Warden.

An image of the Warden wearing the earring,  _his_  earring, and nothing else bloomed in his mind, and he suppressed a shiver as an unmistakably possessive feeling rushed through him.

The need to claim, to take the Warden as his. More disconcertingly, he felt an equally strong need for the Warden to do the same to him.

He suddenly understood the fierce, almost savage intent that seemed to make the Warden's eyes glow in the heat of passion, that drove the Warden to pleasure Zevran until he was boneless and mindless with it.

The Warden had been silent while Zevran mentally wrestled with this revelation, and the emotions that came with it. "... This is a bit out of the blue, isn't it?"

Zevran blinked. Raised his eyes to meet the Warden's.

Found himself pinned down by a sharp, narrow-eyed stare.

Not anger, he realized, after a moment's panic. This was the Warden's quiet,  _probing_  look; the one he used when he was trying to determine the intentions of the person on the receiving end of that unnerving stare. Long, elegant fingers were slowly rolling,  _caressing_ over the earring as the Warden studied him.

It was when he saw the Warden's lips curve slightly that Zevran realised  _what_  sort of strange conclusion the Warden had come to regarding this gift. His stomach contracted as he wondered if, perhaps, his eyes or his voice gave too much away.

Showed the Warden too much of what he'd rather keep hidden.

Zevran shrugged, glancing away from the Warden; it was easier to withstand that stare when he did not have to look back at it. "Don't get the wrong idea about it. You killed Taliesen. As far as the Crows will be concerned, I died with him. That means I'm free, at least for now." He huffed a breath, and forced as much blatant cheeriness into his voice as he could. "Feel free to sell it, or wear it... or whatever you'd like."  _I'd be really happy if you chose to wear it, however._ "It's really the least I could give you in return."

The Warden made a humming sound, still wearing that smug little smile, still gently fondling – there was something strangely  _possessive_  about the way his thumb ran over the pearl, with too much intent behind the movements to simply call it touching – the earring. "So..." The Warden raised a brow. "... not a token of affection, then?"

"I..."  _… Braska._

Some part of him squirmed, literally squirmed at the thought that the Warden saw through his actions, and therefore him, so easily. He mentally shuddered, suddenly realizing that he should have thought through this silly idea of giving away his earring. But he forced himself to keep his face blank, to look up and meet the Warden's expectant stare. "... look, just..." He shook his head. "Just take it. It's meant a lot to me, but so have..."  _… you become, for me._ He bit his tongue, quietly swearing at the near slip, and corrected himself, "... so has what you've done." He took a deep breath, trying to compose himself while  _emotions_  churned in the pit of his belly. "Please, just take it."

The Warden's eyes had widened, briefly, at that slip, but as he spoke they'd narrowed again. He wasn't smiling, however, and his hand had clenched tightly around the earring.

A long moment of fraught silence passed as they stared at each other. Eventually the Warden sighed, his hand relaxing. His other hand reached out, took one of Zevran's, raising that hand so the palm was open. Zevran stared, not daring to move, wondering what the Warden was thinking this time.

The Warden flicked a glance at him, lips thinning in a white line. Then, with a shake of his head, he pressed the earring into Zevran's palm, and curled his fingers over it.

"I'll only take it if it means something."

The words were quiet, but firm, with a very definite tone of finality to it. It took effort for Zevran to  _not_  gape at the Warden like a landed fish.

The Warden didn't say anything else; he simply stared back, eyes narrowed into dangerous, flinty shards, jaw set like stone.

Wildly, Zevran searched the Warden's eyes, his face, for signs of something,  _anything_  that indicated that he didn't really want to give the earring back. But every line of the Warden's face told him that he'd done something  _wrong_ , somewhere, and that the Warden's words were as final as they had sounded.

Zevran dragged in a breath, feeling like he'd been punched in the gut. The Warden had rejected him.

Completely, utterly, rejected him.

He'd made offers before, of course, had proposed things to others. He'd suffered rejection before.

But not like this. He couldn't remember it hurting like this.

His other hand, the one not holding the earring, clenched into a fist. Suppressing the urge to break the Warden's jaw took a fair bit of effort.

"You are a  _very frustrating_ man to deal with, do you know that?" His voice was sharp with anger. That was fine; anger he could deal with. Better than the  _pain_. "We pick up every other bit of treasure we come across, but not this. You don't want the earring? You don't get the earring." He shoved the earring down into his pocket. "Very simple."

The Warden's face had blackened with a frown that grew darker with each word Zevran said; by the time Zevran put the earring away, there was a tic flickering beneath one of the Warden's eyes. But he still said nothing.

 _Likely felt nothing_ , Zevran thought.

Spitting angrily at the side of the alley, he turned and started walking off towards the other end of the alley, where they'd been heading to earlier. He kept his head high, his shoulders straight.

Showed the Warden that he did not care.

A lie, a filthy lie, but it was better than turning around to grovel, to beg the Warden to... what, forgive him? To take him back?

No, if Zevran had to suffer this, it would be with his dignity and pride intact.

He saw Leliana and Morrigan up ahead, where the two had stopped after they'd realized that the Warden and Zevran were distracted. Leliana was watching him, a question in her eyes and likely waiting on the tip of her tongue. Morrigan was studying him, quietly, coldly, with the predatory cunning that he knew she always had. The light in her gold eyes was almost gleeful.

No doubt the witch felt some sadistic joy over his humiliation. Maker knows that the woman had unnatural tastes.

Leliana reached out as he passed by, her hand falling in a comforting sort of way over his shoulder. He shrugged it off, ignoring her gasp of surprise and hurt. He didn't want the comfort. Nor did he want the pity that was so clear in her earnest blue gaze.

He heard Morrigan chuckle, menacingly, but he couldn't bring himself to turn around and savage her. He just kept his eyes on the ground, focused on putting one foot before the other.

Felt the fury fade.

Only to be replaced by a cold emptiness. One that grew with each step he took away from the man that he cared for so very much.

And wondered, where, in dealing with that man, he had gone so terribly, horribly wrong.

_~ to be continued~_


	39. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to SiaLater and Scarylady1 for catching my errors and telling me how to tame them.

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 38_

* * *

 

On another day, Zevran would praise Erlina the maid – although he doubted that 'maid' was her only profession – for choosing such a quiet, stealthy, and mostly foolproof route into the Arl of Denerim's estate. In their guards' disguise, they encountered not a hint of suspicion from the actual guards, allowing them to sneak through the estate unnoticed.

But the lack of action only emphasised his own feelings. Gave him too much free time to think.

Made him realise what it felt like to have his heart ripped out and stepped on.

His chest felt empty, hollow. Only years of training in the art of subterfuge allowed him to put on a veneer of normality, let him function well enough to know when to avert his eyes, or to put on a nonchalant appearance when passing by a guard. Beyond that, his mind was elsewhere; reliving past conversations, replaying arguments and actions. He tried to  _see_ , to learn where and how he'd made such a terrible misstep. All in the desperate hope that he'd simply missed a clue somewhere, or had misinterpreted something...

But no. Whatever he'd done, he'd done horribly wrong, and it was clear from the hardness in the Warden's expression – a closed expression that showed him nothing but an unshakable, determined implacability – that it was up to  _him_  to fix this rift that had suddenly appeared between them.

A rift that showed in their actions and movements; they both kept their distance, figuratively and literally, to the point that they kept themselves apart as far as possible in their little party, putting Morrigan and Leliana between them as they weaved through numerous back alleys, followed by numerous hallways. Neither he nor the Warden made any kind of effort to talk, or even glance at each other; Leliana kept shooting questioning - and increasingly concerned - looks at the both of them, but Zevran refused to meet her gaze, and the Warden simply gave her a glacier-cold stare each time their eyes met. Morrigan gave no sign of how she felt about this, only making her usual snide comments about Denerim – and by extension, cities in general – and the myriad flaws of living in civilized society.

The whole atmosphere grated on his nerves. He wished Morrigan could at least say something useful; how to destroy or dispel the barriers that had kept Anora locked in her room, for example. Odd that a mage had no idea how to undo such magic. He also wished that Leliana would try to ignore him, and that the Warden would stop doing the same thing.

Perhaps he was simply being desperate, to think of such impossible things.

When they finally encountered some truly alert – and properly suspicious – guards, it was almost a welcome relief. It was easier to not focus on the emptiness when he had to make sure that neither he nor anyone in their party died, or ended up crippled by some life-threatening injury.

Not that the dungeons underneath the estate provided much chance for that sort of thinking. There were rather interesting relics of past depravity that showed just how cruel some of this estate's previous owners could be. Although, none of those old instruments could compare to the ones that looked like new additions ordered by the current Arl, and Zevran found himself admiring the gruesomely...  _inventive_ implements that were clearly often used.

His companions weren't impressed when he commented on the masterful crafting of the rack that some poor nobleman's boy had been tied down to earlier. Or fine metalwork of the dragonhead shears and carding combs he'd spotted drying on a table from a recent wash.

Eventually Leliana stopped him with a wide-eyed, pleading look while he was examining a set of thumbscrews. A shame, really; he knew how effective thumbscrews were, despite their so very basic function, and these really were quite solidly-made specimens.

"This Arl Howe must have a lot of excess gold, to afford such luxuries," he murmured to Leliana, while the Warden quietly talked to a nervous elven prisoner. "I wonder if we could find some of that treasure."

"Zevran,  _please_ ," Leliana said, her voice pained. "I don't understand how you can talk about these  _horrid_  things with such—"

"Appreciation?" he suggested.

" _Zevran!_ "

"I know, I know, I'm terrible."

She glared at him, opening her mouth to reply, but the Warden had finished questioning the elf and had returned, his face grim, curtly commenting that Howe was nearby.

As it turned out, Howe was in the very next room. And he had been waiting for them, if the malicious glee in his beady eyes were any indication.

"Well, well, Bryce Cousland's little boy," Howe said with a sneer, when they halted just inside the room, "all grown up, and still trying to fit into daddy's armour." He shook his head, as if in disbelief. "I never thought you'd be fool enough to turn up here. But then I never thought you'd live, either."

Zevran felt the Warden's body freeze with those words. One look was enough to confirm that yes, the Warden had gone pale, his hands clenching into fists. Anger, however, was  _not_  the main emotion in the wide, unblinking stare he gave Howe.

It took a moment for Zevran to realize that the proper name for that emotion was despair.

"Why betray us, Howe?" The Warden's voice was quiet, disbelieving. "My father was your friend!"

Howe's face darkened with a fierce, vindictive scowl. "A clumsy appeal,  _child_ ," he said, spitting out the last word like an insult. "He was a traitor to me and a coward to his nation! Trips to Orlais, gifts from old enemies;  _all while I sank in obscurity!_ "

Zevran stared as Howe savagely railed about how the Cousland family had stolen the glory and fame that was rightfully his, voice dripping with bitter venom while jealousy that had been suppressed for years, now loosed, poured from him. Not even the softness of his voice masked the malice behind the words. He was an old man who'd stewed with resentment for so long that he had become nothing but a virulent, rabid dog, driven by his own madness.

The Warden appeared to realize that; the initial shock at Howe's vicious little outburst had worn off, only to be replaced by a cold, blank mien as he reached for his greatsword and unsheathed it. When Howe hissed at his henchmen to kill them all, the only emotion in the Warden's eyes was the cool, quiet intent of a killer as he shifted into a combat-ready stance.

The fight was a fierce, dirty one. The low ceiling and enclosed space of the dungeon meant that they had to fight in close quarters, and any sort of magic could hit a friend just as easily as a foe. Morrigan was cursing loudly as she sent bolts of ice and magically-packed earth at Howe's pet mages, unable to use her stronger fire and lightning spells. Even Leliana had to reach for her rarely used daggers when one of Howe's henchmen got too close for her to draw her bow in time; she had some decent skill with using them, Zevran noted, as he swept past a wild axe swing and slashed out, his blades slicing easily through exposed hamstrings. A little bit rusty, but he liked the little tricks and flashes she used to feint and distract her opponent. Very Orlesian. He should talk with her sometime about those.

A loud snarl – quickly followed by a clash of metal grating against metal – drew his attention. The Warden was fully engaged with Howe, fighting one on one.

More fighters rushed against Zevran – he recalled, vaguely, that the Arl had given orders to "kill the knife ear and the girls, the boy is  _mine_ " – and the melee distracted him, confused him. It was only when he had cut down one of the luckless fools following Howe's orders that he realised that something was wrong.

The Warden was flagging, backing away, fighting defensively – he never fought that way. Not even when surrounded. Then Zevran saw the Warden's armor gleaming with streaks of red, saw the broken off pieces of armour on the ground. Saw the savage little smirk on Arl Howe's face as he swung at the Warden, his axe shining brilliantly – far too brilliantly for the shine to be natural. The glare of runes flashed as the axe sliced a gaping cut over the surface of the reinforced silverite of the Warden's breastplate like it was made of hide instead.

"Give it up, child," Howe taunted, as his axe sung through the air, slicing another cut on the Warden's armour. "Your family is dead, your bloodline all but gone, and all that's left of you is a pathetic husk of a man, likely to die buried beneath a rock in the Deep Roads. Even the Wardens are gone, banished to the Anderfels with the last of their kind. You have nothing left to fight for. You are only prolonging the inevitable."

The Warden remained silent, still backing away, but when Howe rushed him, the greatsword swung in a neat, tightly controlled arc that made Howe leap back to avoid getting beheaded.

"Liar," the Warden said, quietly. "You are fooling no one but yourself, Howe. I am a Grey Warden. You are a hindrance in the war against the Blight. For that alone, this dungeon will be the place of your death."

Howe stared for a brief moment, his expression serious, eyes sober with thought. "Ah, and there it is," he sighed. "That damned look in the eye that marked every Cousland success that held me back. Your father would been proud." Thin lips curled back in a sneer as one of his hands dropped to his sides. "I, on the other hand, want you dead more than ever."

Too late, Zevran saw the flask – the clear glass showing the sickly green liquid within – that had been strapped to Howe's belt.

He didn't think. Didn't give himself time to think. A man-at-arms with sword and shield charged at him; he twisted away, disengaging, already changing his grip on one of his daggers. By the time Howe had pulled that flask off his belt, Zevran had raised his arm, and – with a silent but fervent prayer to the Maker and his bride – he  _threw_

The dagger cartwheeled through the air. Once, twice, three times, four.

And sank deep into Howe's shoulder just as the flask had been raised overhead.

Howe yelped. The flask dropped from his suddenly-numb hand, crashing on his shoulder and shattering into glittering pieces. The howl of pain that pierced the air was as sharp as a darkspawn shriek's, and the smell of melting leather and flesh was just as pungent as the stink of tainted blood.

The Warden saw the chance, the brief moment of vulnerability, and Zevran nearly shouted with elation as the Warden drew his sword back, the tip pointed forward, and charged, sinking his blade deep into Howe's belly.

The thrust was forceful enough to make Howe double over the sword, gasping with shock, but the Warden didn't waste time; he pulled his sword out, quick enough to make blood rush out of the suddenly gaping wound like a fountain, and by the time Howe had dropped on his knees, the Warden was already striding away, towards their other enemies, ignoring his fallen foe.

At the clear defeat of their leader, the men-at-arms faltered; with the Warden fully engaged, it was easy enough to wipe them out, so the only ones still standing were the Warden's party.

Leliana made a distressed noise when she saw the Warden. "Maker's breath, Warden, you're wounded."

The Warden shook his head, his lips thinning. "I'll live," he said curtly, at the same time Morrigan rushed to his side with a hissed "Hold still" as she laid her already glowing hands over the most obvious wounds.

The Warden waited, with barely concealed impatience, as Morrigan's magic closed the relatively clean wounds, leaving no scars. Zevran was impressed at the speed; the witch had been learning a few things from watching a certain old biddy in their little menagerie work, obviously. As soon as Morrigan stepped back, the Warden turned around and strode off.

To where Howe lay in a gradually widening pool of blood.

The fallen Arl was struggling to sit up as the Warden approached; he managed, somehow, to support himself on one arm while clutching at the gaping slash at his belly with his free hand. Zevran could just see the gleam of exposed guts, could smell the stench of them over the blood and the acid-eaten flesh.

The Warden simply stood over Howe, watching. Waiting. His face was stone, as impassive as a statue's.

Howe drew in a hissing breath, and coughed out a red-tinged spray. "Maker spit on you," he choked, blood running past his lips and trailing over his chin. "I deserved... more."

The last word was nothing more than a gargle, and Howe slumped back, his mouth still hanging open. His lungs expelled out one last, groaning moan, and then he was dead.

And still the Warden stared quietly. Long enough that Zevran wondered if the Warden was not actually looking at Howe, but inwardly, at some distant memory.

Carefully, not wanting to startle the Warden, he went up to his side, and laid a hand gently on one pauldron-covered shoulder.

"I left my father behind like this."

The sudden comment nearly made Zevran snatch his hand back in surprise. Then the Warden turned his head, slightly, to regard Zevran, before returning his gaze to Howe's body.

The brief look was enough to tell Zevran that the Warden's eyes were blank, distant. They were the eyes of a man who had seen too much, and been given too little time to understand it.

"He was alone near the servant's entrance when Mother and I found him," the Warden went on, "We had to fight our way out of the living quarters. Howe tried to kill us while we were sleeping and defenseless, but Anlan heard them, and woke us up before they could break in. Ser Gilmore and the remaining guards barricaded the main entrance to the castle, giving us the time needed to reach the servants' entrance. Gilmore told us that Father was wounded, but we didn't know how bad it was until we found him."

His tone was soft and light, his voice not nearly loud enough to be counted as more than a whisper. But to Zevran, the quiet, conversational manner in which the Warden spoke – and that blank, faraway gaze – was far more disturbing than if he had simply broken down in tears.

"We were too late. He was dying. Duncan found us, told us we didn't have much time before the castle was overwhelmed. Mother refused to leave Father's side. She told me that she would delay Howe's men, would give Duncan and I enough time to escape. I... we had to leave them both. I never knew what happened to them before they died." The Warden dragged in a tight-sounding breath, let it out slowly in a shuddering, shaky sigh, his eyelids falling closed. "Now I'll never know." His eyes opened, and they were focused, almost fierce with some emotion that was between anger and satisfaction. Narrowed in a sharp glare at the corpse of Rendon Howe at his feet. "I'm not sure how I feel about Howe dying in a similar manner, and in similar circumstances, to how my father died—" His mouth curved in a thin and vicious smile like the edge of a knife. "—but I suppose I could call it poetic justice."

Zevran studied the Warden's face, hard and tense with too many emotions. Wondered. "Are you truly the last of your family?"

"As far as I know, yes. My brother, Fergus... I don't know if he still lives. He was at Ostagar, scouting. But I don't know if he'd escaped, or died there. Like so many others."

Zevran wasn't very well-versed with Ferelden politics, but... "So with Howe dead, you'll be—"

"—the new Teyrn?" The Warden snorted. "We'll see. Last I checked, Grey Wardens can't hold titles. Then there's the problem of getting married and begetting an heir... while I have no doubt that you'd look very pretty in a dress, I don't think any children will come from that."

Zevran blinked. Stared.

The Warden looked at him, eyes sharp with amusement and lips twisted in a taunting half-smile, before he shrugged, making Zevran's hand drop off his shoulder, where it had been left there, mostly forgotten in the wake of Zevran's shock.

Feeling like someone had tugged a rug out from right under his feet, Zevran turned his head, staring after the Warden, who'd walked towards where Morrigan and Leliana had stood at a distance away, both of them not wanting – or daring – to approach the Warden while he'd been watching Howe's final moments. "Right," the Warden said, his tone crisp, "we're done here. Let's finish cleaning up whatever other messes Howe left in this dungeon, get out, pick up the queen, and head back to Arl Eamon. I don't want to waste more time than we have."

Zevran's body moved, instinctively following the sharp command in the Warden's voice, but his mind and his thoughts were distracted, focused on something else.

The strange comment about marriage – and the taunting smile that followed it – circled in his mind as they methodically pocketed whatever valuables they could find (he took the enchanted axe, to replace his damaged dagger) before they went to deal with the remaining prisoners in the dungeon. The nobleman, purportedly the rightful Arl of Denerim, was killed, although the Warden cleverly persuaded the idiot to give him a key to some treasure. The delirious templar nearby refused to leave his cell, but the Warden did take a ring and made some promise to get someone to rescue him.

The initial shock had worn off by the time they were retracing their tracks back to where the Warden had left Erlina and Queen Anora. Seized by a sudden, uncharacteristically optimistic hope, he frenetically re-examined the refusal of his earring, the rejection of that gift.

He'd thought... he'd been so sure that the Warden had refused him, that he wasn't wanted at all.

That wasn't it, he realised. The Warden wasn't rejecting him; but he, in his typical, maddeningly indirect way, was asking for something else.

Something more than just the sentimental value behind the gifting of his earring.

With that insight, he immediately knew what that more would be.

He gritted his teeth. He understood what the Warden ultimately wanted from him, but he didn't want to think about it.

To dwell on that only made him more acutely aware of the very real, very terrifying vulnerability that... caring for the Warden and needing him so desperately opened in his chest, in his very soul.

He wanted to, and knew he could, live the rest of his possibly-short life without acknowledging that large, gaping hole in his emotional shield, in the carefully-constructed personal armour he had put around his heart. Could suppress that sense of emotional exposure that being with the Warden, sexually or otherwise, invoked; a feeling that he had little doubt would become far more intense if he were to admit its existence.

A feeling that the Warden knew about, apparently; Zevran remembered all the little looks that the Warden often shot at him when their eyes met during travel or rest, the enigmatic smiles and knowing, quietly taunting eyes, as if the Warden understood something that he didn't.

Like that half-smile and teasing gaze in the dungeon.

Those looks had unsettled Zevran when he'd received them before. Simply thinking about them still unsettled him. The Warden was a dangerously intelligent and keenly observant man; the realisation that, even with his best efforts, those keen eyes could see right through his words and deep into his true thoughts was a frightening one.

Zevran was starting to suspect that the Warden not only knew that his feelings were far deeper than that of a friendly sex partner, but that he also knew Zevran didn't want to look too closely at them. So he'd been circling, prowling, waiting – and eventually baiting him, luring him into a position where he had no choice but to admit to himself how he truly felt about the close bond that had formed between them.

He mentally winced. The more he thought about it, the more he realised that it should have been obvious to him, but he'd been so willfully blind to the whole affair that he'd completely missed the Warden's careful manoeuvring.

Until now. Until the Warden had clearly lost his patience, and possibly his temper as well, and bluntly refused the earring. He'd forced Zevran to think, to feel.

Zevran didn't know if he should clap his hands in wry admiration, or just strangle the Warden for manipulating him.

A decision he could only make later, unfortunately; their little adventure beneath the estate proper had not gone unnoticed, it seemed, and they were almost immediately swarmed by guards as soon as they'd stumbled out of the dungeon. It was easy enough to dispose of them, and then they were at the door to Anora's room-turned-prison-cell.

He'd never met Anora before, truth to be told, even though he'd dealt with her father. She was quite beautiful, and the way the obviously stolen armour hugged her body was very fetching. Her eyes were cold, however, and sharp as Howe's axe. A dangerous woman.

If the Warden noticed any of that, he gave no sign, although his eyes did study her body quickly, taking in the far-from-queenly disguise as one eyebrow rose in something that looked like puzzled interest, before he stared at her face for a much longer time.

"... Aren't you a little short for a guard?"

The dry tone of the Warden's voice made Zevran bark out a laugh before he hastily covered the slip with a cough. Anora's maid gasped in shock, possibly with a bit of outrage, but Anora simply gave the Warden an unamused look.

"Funny," she said. "Very funny." Shaking her head, she changed the subject to something rather more urgent. "We must go quickly and avoid notice. If Howe's people find me, I'll be killed. And my people will insist on escorting me back to the palace... where my father may also have me killed." Her voice grew quiet as she spoke of her father. She sounded almost sad.

The Warden didn't say anything to that; he simply nodded, motioned for Anora to follow. His gaze raked over her one last time – like a wolf quietly appraising a lone sheep – before he turned away. But not before Zevran caught the sly, appreciative smile that curved the Warden's lips.

The sudden urge to stalk over to the Warden's side and give him a punch in the face startled Zevran with its intensity.

It was just a glance – one of male approval, yes, but there was no active interest. He knew that. Didn't quite know how he knew that to be true, but he did. Maker's breath, he knew he had looked at the Queen the same way when he first saw her, might have even smiled the same way. But the idea of the Warden showing any sort of interest –

He looked up as they entered the main entrance hall of the estate. Blinked. Stared at the archers and mages barring the entrance, bows drawn and spells ready. Hastily shoved his thoughts to the back of his mind, biting back a vicious curse as he caught sight of the formidable woman who stood right in front of the massive double doors, a stern frown on her harsh-featured face.

"Warden," Ser Cauthrien called. "In the name of the regent, I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Rendon Howe and his men-at-arms." Her eyes narrowed into an intimidating glare. "Surrender, and you may be shown mercy."

Highly efficient, for city guards, Zevran thought with no small amount of cynicism. Doubtless they had known the Warden would come here, and had already guessed – or perhaps expected – that Howe would not live to see the next day.

Leliana muttered a creative little curse, reaching for her bow. Morrigan, likewise, had swung her staff out, magic making the tip of it glow ominously. Zevran felt a chill as he counted the archers, the mages. Too many attackers in too small a space. Even if they attacked at once, there was no guarantee that they could get rid of their welcome party quickly enough, before a spell or arrow seriously injured one of them. Then there was the little queen they were escorting; even if she knew how to fight, which he doubted, it was in their best interests to keep her alive, while their enemies wanted her dead. She was a very, very vulnerable weakness that could be exploited. He didn't like their odds at all.

"I will stand down."

The Warden's statement made all of them pause—even Ser Cauthrien, who looked surprised at this turn of events. He didn't appear to notice or care, however, as he stared, unflinchingly, at Loghain's underling, before shaking his head. "You don't know the full story."

Ser Cauthrien's jaw dropped slightly; an apt expression. Zevran knew his own face mirrored her shock. Behind him, Morrigan scoffed. "We have killed so many other guards," she sneered, and Zevran noticed some of Cauthrien's men shift, looking distinctly ill-at-ease at Morrigan's carelessly cold words. "What do a few more matter?"

The Warden turned his head, gave her a disapproving look, which she returned with a coolly raised brow.

The maid, Erlina, shifted close to the Warden, clutched his arm, whispered just barely loud enough for Zevran to catch her words. "Are you sure this is what you wish?"

The Warden's lips thinned; he looked angry, frustrated, but his eyes were hard with resolve. "Killing them just reinforces Loghain's lies about me," he said quietly.

And handing your head over on a silver platter is going to help you how, exactly?

Zevran wanted to yelp that at the Warden, but then Ser Cauthrien chose that moment to recover her composure. "I'm surprised this ended peacefully," she said, sounding not surprised at all. She motioned to the two men beside her, who were the largest and most hard-faced men of her group. "Bring the Warden. Loghain doesn't care about the rest."

A cold wave surged through Zevran as he watched those men approach, while the Warden stood motionless, raising his hands up in clear surrender. It left ice in his wake, cold and desolate, as one of the men took the Warden's weapons away while the other turned him around and pulled his arms back, sharp enough to make the otherwise stoic face flinch.

Zevran stepped forward, his hand closing around the hilt of his dagger.

Beside him, Leliana reached out, put a hand on his shoulder. "Please," she said softly, her voice rough-edged, as if she was choking back a wave of panic. "We can't stay here."

He didn't move, not even when Leliana tugged slightly. He hauled in a breath, opened his mouth—

The Warden raised his eyes. Pinned Zevran down with a stare. "No."

That one word was steely, laden with command even at this moment of vulnerability. Zevran froze at the word, all but quivering under the restraint of that command.

The Warden said nothing, gave no sign as his arms were bound back, but his eyes were open and clear as they held Zevran's. They told Zevran what wasn't being said, what didn't need to be said.

_I'll find a way past this. Trust me._

Zevran expelled the breath in his lungs in an uneasy, shaking hiss. Forced himself to breathe, even though his lungs felt like they were caught in a vice. Fighting to curb the dark panic that roiled through him, he nodded, slightly, as he stepped back, hand shifting away from his dagger.

He knew he couldn't say anything, had no time to say anything. He simply gave the Warden one last look before he turned away and allowed Leliana to guide him towards the exit. Prayed that the Warden could read that look correctly.

_I'll save you, Warden. Somehow._

_~to be continued~_


	40. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to SiaLater for catching my errors and telling me how to tame them.

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 39_

* * *

 

It took a great deal of willpower to not succumb to the panic threatening to overwhelm him.

Arl Eamon's estate was in an uproar. The Warden's absence when they returned with Queen Anora had not gone unnoticed, and reactions to his voluntary surrender ranged from disbelief to outrage. Alistair was appalled that the Warden would even do that, although his not-so-friendly glares at Anora suggested that he was already blaming someone for that.

Zevran had remained silent while Anora and Eamon discussed the Warden's plight – and therefore had learned where the Warden might be imprisoned – before he had slipped away during the chaos resulting from a roaring drunk Oghren running off to fetch his armour and weapons while slurring about rescuing the Warden with a straight-up attack on Fort Drakon.

A long bath washed away the grime and blood, but did nothing to calm him. He had sat in the oversized copper tub – a tub that was large enough to accommodate the Warden's massive build, and had indeed been brought out for the Warden's use – and found himself staring at the ceiling as his imagination swamped him with images of the Warden in chains, bruised, battered, being whipped and beaten, treated to such exquisite pain and agony that... that...

The images haunted him while he dried himself and put on his clothes, chased him while he retreated to somewhere where no one could see how greatly disturbed he felt.

How he was clinging to professional calm by his fingernails as the torrent of fear and dread lashed against him.

The library in Arl Eamon's estate was, thankfully, deserted, and he found himself pacing up and down a shadowy aisle, surrounded by books and solitude as he wrestled with the foolish compulsion to follow Oghren's reckless, insane example and rush to the Warden's rescue.

It took time, a long time, before his legs started to ache and his mind quieted enough that he could think.

And plan.

He wasn't  _too_  worried about the Warden's life. Not yet, anyway. His impression of Loghain, as well as what he'd learned from Eamon and Anora's discussion, told him that while the man may be mad, he was too wily to actually execute the Warden while the Queen – his only solid, legitimate excuse to wield his powers as Regent – remained in the hands of his foes. The Warden might be interrogated and tortured, yes – and the thought made him queasy – but they won't kill him, not if Loghain wanted to secure his political clout. So while Queen Anora remained safely ensconced in Eamon's estate, they had the advantage; at least, for the time being. Loghain may choose to risk actually attacking Eamon to "rescue" the Queen by force. Which meant that if the Warden was to be rescued, it had to be done quickly.

… but how could he accomplish that?

He sighed, closing his eyes and combed a hand through still-damp hair, fingers firmly running over his scalp and then lightly tugging on his hair. The gentle, tingling rush of blood to his scalp calmed him somewhat; he suddenly understood why the Warden had this particular nervous tic.

"Zevran?"

He did not quite jump a foot in the air; his body did jerk, however, and he winced as he accidentally pulled too hard and managed to tug a few hairs out of his scalp. Rubbing the stinging ache, he turned in time to see Leliana walk past his aisle and spot him.

The worried expression on her face collapsed into relief. " _There you are._  I've been looking all over for you."

The smirk on his face and the reply on his tongue was instant and instinctive. "Oh? Looking for company? I knew you wouldn't resist my good looks for very long."

Months ago, the salacious tone in his voice would had made Leliana splutter and protest. This time, all she did was raise a brow and a corner of her mouth before she spoke, her voice deliberately casual: "I had hoped you have not left the estate. Thank the Maker I found you in time."

Amused by the blatant lack of acknowledgement, he leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. "Now what makes you think I'll be doing something like that?"

Both of her eyebrows raised. "Don't tell me you weren't thinking of going to rescue the Warden on your own. We both would know you'd be lying."

His blinked. Felt his face blank as he faked a casual shrug. "The Warden can take care of himself. He might even be finding his own way out even as we speak."

"Perhaps. But you'll go there anyway."

Her statement, spoken with calm sureness, prickled at his temper; largely because it was true. "I don't see how this is any of your concern."

She shrugged, her smile calm and serene. "Maybe I simply don't like seeing my friends in trouble."

"It's still none of your concern."

Her smile remained in place, but her eyes grew chilly and hard. "Do you really that it's easy to break into a fortress full of soldiers, alone? With no one watching your back, or helping you if you run into trouble? If you're going to rescue the Warden, I'm going with you too." Before he could think of any reply to that, she took the large roll of vellum pinned under her arm and waved it. "Either way, I believe you might be interested in looking at this. Consider it... mmm,  _compensation_  for letting me follow you."

He gave her a narrow-eyed look, toyed with the idea of insisting that she keep her nose out of this, and then shrugged. He supposed there was no harm in letting her help, if she so wished; and truth to be told, she brought up several very important concerns. That, and he was too tired to bother arguing. "Very well. Let's see what you have to offer."

Her expression brightened. "Thank you," she said. "You won't regret this, I promise."

 _We'll see._  "You were about to show me...?"

She smiled, sauntering over to the closest empty table, and unrolled the vellum over the aged wood, revealing...

He blinked. Stared. "Where did you get this?"

"I'd been speaking with Erlina. She... err, let slip that Eamon may have charts like these in his study. So I borrowed this for a while." She ran her hand over the detailed architectural plans of Fort Drakon. "I don't think the arl would mind, if he found out what we are using it for. Assuming he even missed it in the first place."

He glanced at her, wondering  _why_  in the Maker's name would Leliana be speaking to the queen's clearly-more-than-just-a-handmaiden, but he had a suspicion that she would evade the question if asked. "Erlina is a very useful person to have around," he said carefully.

"She is that."

He made a noncommittal grunt at her cheerfully vague answer, and decided that there wasn't really any point learning what made Erlina so useful in the first place. He planted his hands on the table, focusing his attention on the charts and diagrams. The architect who drew these plans was very thorough; even the smallest rooms were detailed in, the names of each room labelled in a clear, precise hand. It was easy enough to identify the dungeon, built behind the kennels.

The longer he studied the plans, the darker his frown grew. Whoever designed the fortress was a brilliant and apparently paranoid genius; everything recorded about the fortress' structure suggested that it was built to be impregnable, and he couldn't find any sort of vulnerability that he could easily exploit. "This... might be something of a challenge."

Leliana let out a frustrated sigh. "I was afraid of that." At that remark, he glanced up, raising a brow in question. Her lips twisted into a wry smile. "I took a quick peek at the charts before I want looking for you. I'd hoped that you might see a path where I could not."

He snorted. "No matter. It simply means that forcing our way in might be a little too risky. Exciting, but risky. A little subterfuge, however, can get us in with a lot less trouble. Here." He pointed at a doorway marked as  _Servant's Entrance_. "Fewer guards would be posted here, I think, and it's placed rather close to the dungeons; quite a fine coincidence."

"Or a deliberate choice," Leliana said, grimacing. "I imagine the dungeons have torture equipment, and those would require a lot of cleaning very often, no?"

An image of the Warden tied to a rack, bruised and bloodied and screaming in pain as the joints of his limbs were slowly ripped apart, flashed in his mind. He felt his body tense as old memories rose to the surface of his thoughts, reminding him of how the Crows used to torture their disobedient recruits, remembered the the cries of terror, the helplessness, the  _pain..._

With a pang of black fear and a bark of false laughter, he chased the thoughts away. He cannot, would not, think of such things. Not when he needed to be calm. "True. Still, it's convenient for the two of us, regardless of the reason for the placement. We can sneak through the living quarters here, across the courtyard here"– _what kind of idiot puts ballistae in the middle of a fortress?_ –"and then head straight for the dungeons."

Leliana made a moue. "Easy enough. But what reason would the guard let an Orlesian woman and an Antivan elf into the fortress?"

"We will also need a good reason to keep our weapons and armour."

"That, too." She shrugged. "I haven't thought that far yet, to be honest."

A thoughtful silence fell as they pondered this particular set of dilemmas. Zevran stared at the map, mindful of the fact that the longer they did nothing, the less time they had before Loghain made his move, and the Warden would be killed. He felt his chest tighten, a cold hard stone settling low in his stomach, and his hands clenched into fists, crumpling the vellum beneath them. The Warden may try to break out of Fort Drakon on his own, of course; the intent was clear in the gaze that they shared before parting in the late Howe's estate.

But making the assumption that the Warden would successfully find his way out of Fort Drakon and back to Arl Eamon's estate... Zevran didn't like the risks involved. Even if the Warden was not incapacitated to the point of helplessness, he would have a hard time fighting or even sneaking his way out of a guard-filled fortress with Maker-knows-what injuries. Then there's the problem of navigating the dizzying, dangerous maze of Denerim's streets on his own, exposed to any sharp-eyed bandit or mercenary who recognised him and wanted to claim the bounty on his head, or even to simply take advantage of a lone, injured man...

No. Too many risks, too many dangers. Zevran couldn't let that happen.

The  _pitter-patter_  of clawed feet on hard stone snapped him out of his thoughts, made him raise his head. Anlan's large, hulking form appeared from behind a bookcase, and the dog slunk towards them, head and ears drooping. Catching slight of Zevran, Anlan approached him, made a plaintive, questioning whine.

 _As if the dog expects me to say something._  He sighed, pushing himself away from the table and kneeling down. "Looking for your master, hm?" he murmured, hand rising to scratch behind Anlan's ear as the dog came within reach. "I'm afraid we haven't brought him back yet."

Somehow Anlan managed to look even  _more_  depressed, despite the limits of its canine face. Unsure of how to comfort a sad dog – and a frighteningly intelligent dog at that – Zevran looked up at Leliana, wanting to ask...

… except Leliana was staring at Anlan, her eyes wide and her mouth open, as if startled.

Zevran watched as she slowly blinked, and then those bright blue eyes turned towards him, while her lips curved into a mischievous, delighted smile.

"I have an idea."

* * *

Leliana's idea, as it turned out, was truly brilliant in its simplicity and ease of execution. It took only a moment for the both of them to find Eamon's cook and convince her to hand over two large sack of beef bones. In less than an hour after that, they were both armed, armoured, and in Fort Drakon, awaiting the captain of the guard.

"Food for the dogs," he murmured with a grin. "I sometimes forget, Fereldens do love their pet hounds."

Leliana smiled. She looked more than a little smug. "See, I told you this would work."

He shrugged. "I prefer sneaking my way past things, to be honest. Talking is not my strong point. Although I'm hoping this captain would be fairly oblivious." He glanced at the bow still strapped to Leliana's back, feeling well aware of the weight of his own dagger and axe. "No servant would be carrying around weapons and armour, like we are doing."

"Perhaps we're just a pair of very low-ranking recruits forced to do menial tasks to please our own captain," she said brightly. "Not to worry. I can handle the captain."

"Of course," he said, with a tiny little smile of amusement. "But I'll keep a knife handy, just in case."

Leliana raised an eyebrow at that, but any forthcoming reply was interrupted by the distinct sound of shifting chain-mail. They turned as one, just as an irritable-looking man with slightly better armour than the earlier pair of guards approached them.

"All right," he said, sounding just as grumpy as he looked, "what's this about?"

 _Someone's feeling impatient today,_  Zevran thought, at the same time Leliana spoke, in her most convincing eager-to-please-recruit voice: "Making a delivery, captain."

The captain's scowl darkened as he looked askance at their armour. Which, Zevran realised somewhat belatedly, looked  _nothing_  like the standard-issue armour that guardsmen would wear. When he gave Zevran's obviously-elven face a suspicious look, however, Zevran had to force his face into a blank, if mostly bored, expression, like a man who was only here because he was forced to. Whatever the captain's thoughts on elves were, it didn't matter, as long as he let them into the fortress. Zevan had more pressing matters to attend to than to deal with some foolish idiot's racism.

The captain's eyes narrowed, but if he had any doubts about their credibility, he chose to say nothing. "I wasn't notified about this," he growled, glaring at the sacks of bones.

Leliana's smile was the right mixture of placating, unsure, and wryly amused, designed to invoke sympathy. "It was a little spur-of-the-moment, I admit," she said, her tone apologetic. "Cook at the royal palace had a lot of soup bones left over and wanted to send them to the dogs here."

"...  _Table scraps?_ " The captain's face wavered between disbelief, outrage, and disgust, before eventually settling on an in-between expression that looked like he was constipating in a badly-maintained privy. "Oh, Maker." Zevran could almost hear the  _"They called me here just to waste my time checking on a pair of wet-behind-the-ears recruits making a menial delivery?"_  in the captain's head, and he coughed to hide the laugh threatening to gurgle out of his throat. Leliana just shrugged and spread her arms helplessly, as if saying " _Well, here we are, and your guardsmen insisted..."_

The captain gave her a long-suffering look, but eventually rolled his eyes skywards, his lips moving in a silent prayer. Or maybe a curse. Zevran suspected that it was the latter. " _... fine_ ," he sighed, before he turned and almost stomped his way to where the two guards were standing, gargoyle-like, beside the servant's entrance. "Take them to the kennel," he snapped, making them both jump, and he was past them before they could react with more than an perfunctory " _Yes, ser!"_.

Zevran and Leliana both waited until the captain's grumbling faded out of earshot before they picked up the bags and heading towards the entrance. "No need to guide us," Leliana said with a cheery smile at the guard who'd called for the captain earlier. "We know the way."

"Uh... of course," the guard said, sounding a little stunned.

Leliana's smile deepened, and Zevran watched, amused, as she laid a hand on the guard's armoured chest, and leaned in far too close to be called 'polite'. "Later, perhaps, you may give me a  _private_ tour of this place," she all but purred, making the poor sap redden slightly, lips twitching as if he wanted to smile despite himself.

"Err... I might be able to find time for that, yes."

Leliana beamed, winking at him, and then she breezily swept past the door, Zevran following closely behind her.

It was only after they'd strode some distance away from the guards (far enough that he could no longer hear the other guard enviously teasing his comrade) that Zevran gave in to the urge to snicker. "Nice touch," he said. Spotting a decorative statue in a corner – one of those ridiculous, shield-holding statues that seem so common in Tevinter architecture – he trotted over to it, eager to be rid of the bag of bones. "You do realise that we might have to kill him later, when we break out with the Warden, hm?"

"Mmm." Leliana's face was serene as she trailed after him. "I suppose it's unfortunate, but the last thing we both need is to have him follow us, no? And what faster way to distract a man than to use his lustful nature against him?"

"Speaks the voice of experience," Zevran said, and Leliana chuckled, unperturbed. He shoved the bag past the small space by the statue's feet, letting it drop out of sight to the cranny formed by the corner and the large pedestal. "I must say, dear woman, I rather like this change in you."

"That's nice, but I'm not sleeping with you."

The quick reply – and the teasing glance that she gave him as she walked past him – made him grin as he leaned one shoulder against the wall.  _Ah, so she wants to play this game._  "Oh, I can think of many other things we can do other than sleep," he said, voice dripping with obscene suggestion.

She raised her brows. "Oh? Then let's see what's in those trousers. I like to make informed decisions, after all."

He had assumed that she would simply dismiss him, as she always had. The unexpected repartee make him bark out a delighted laugh. "That's rather saucy of you, isn't it?" he teased, waggling his brows. "You really have changed."

"Yes, yes." Leliana's tone was sharp, impatient. "I don't see those trousers coming down, however, do I?"

It took a moment for him to realise just how serious her expression had become, as if she... He blinked. "Err... you just want me to show you? Right here?"

"Why not?" She stared at him. "Aren't you the shameless lothario you claim to be? There are rumours about you elves and I intend to see them proven untrue before I even consider a tumble."

He blinked again. The question to ask just what exactly those rumours were hovered on the tip of this tongue, but he recognised a verbal trap when he saw one. He'd attempted to bait her, but she'd returned the favour tenfold, and... well, there were some things that even he didn't think was wise to do. Like dropping his trousers in the middle of a hostile area. "On second thought, perhaps you've travelled to an awkward place where I dare not follow."

Leliana smiled, brilliantly. "I thought as much."

He glared, narrow-eyed, but she only laughed and shrugged.  _Cheeky woman._  Conceding that she'd won  _this_  round, he gave her a thin-lipped smile as he pushed himself off the wall and strode past her. "Mmm... enough dallying, I think. The Warden isn't going to claw his way out of prison on his own."

He heard Leliana giggle behind him. He pretended that it never happened.

* * *

As it turned out, there  _was_  one good use for ballistae in the middle of a fortress. He wasn't sure what the value of that statue was, but he did think that it looked better without its head. The Tevinter weren't renowned for their ability to create pretty things, after all.

Still, he  _did_  feel a little miffed about the method used to remove aforementioned head. "Did you really have to do that?" he muttered, giving Leliana a narrow-eyed glare. "My ears are still ringing."

"You were taking too long."

"I was two sentences away from persuading that guardswoman away from her post–"

"I don't think we'll be able to talk our way past anyone back here," Leliana commented, looking around. "Hopefully there aren't too many guards around. Things might get a little messy, otherwise."

" _Leliana._ "

She shrugged. "As I said, you were taking too long. Really, Zevran, I expected you to be more urgent about this. Especially when it's your beloved's life at stake here."

Whatever annoyance he had felt simply... vanished, as his mind stuttered to a halt. "He's not my–" His tongue froze, that one word sticking in his throat as a part of him adamantly refused to even admit that aloud. "It's not like that."

"Oh?" She raised her eyebrows. "From what I've seen, it is very much like 'that' between the two of you."

Annoyance flared. "Are you sure your eyes are working properly, Leliana? Perhaps you've injured them, somehow, and you aren't seeing things clearly."

"I'll have you know that I can land an arrow on a target that's two hundred paces away," she retorted. "You are the one that is blind, and wilfully at that. Anyone with a working head on their shoulders can see that you are in love with the Warden, and he is in love with you."

His head was already shaking before he even realised it, and his mouth had opened to speak, but a shout of alarm told him that they were spotted. The luckless guards were under-trained, thankfully, and stood no chance against a man and a woman who were both very efficient – if differently skilled – killers. He wasn't even out of breath when he bent down to wipe his weapons clean on a tunic and said, "The Warden and I simply have an arrangement of convenience. Nothing more."

"You talk as if you are trying to convince yourself that you believe in that," she said, pulling an arrow out of a fallen guard's throat, sending a spray of blood splattering on the floor.

"There's nothing to convince me about," he said flatly, "because it is true."

"Then you are a fool for thinking that," she said. Her tone was calm, almost gentle. And her gaze was... sad? Pitying? "He only ever had eyes for you, Zevran. I've seen all sorts of emotional games played out in Orlais and Ferelden; what the Warden feels for you is strong enough that he does a _very_ poor job of masking it, and he is a very skilled player."

He snorted. "You make it sound as if it's so easy to just..." He waved his hand in a vague, all-encompassing gesture. "... let things be. That  _sentiment_ is just a simple thing."

She shrugged. "Sometimes, love really is just that simple.  _You_  are making it more complicated than it has to be."

That word again.  _Love._ He felt his muscles tense, his skin prickle, as the instinct to  _run_  screamed in his head.

_A Crow has no use for sentiment._

But he was a Crow no longer, wasn't he? He was  _free._  Free to do whatever he wanted.

Free to  _feel_  however he wanted.

And yet... he didn't know if what he felt for the Warden was indeed what Leliana seemed to think it was. He didn't even know how to make head or tail of the tangled skein of emotions that rolled over him where the Warden was concerned.

Zevran sighed, suddenly weary. "Enough. We're making no progress here, and we have more pressing matters to attend to."

Leliana stared at him for a little while, her eyes narrowed, but she eventually shrugged again, and nodded. "Very well. We'll talk later."

 _Assuming I even want to talk about this later._  Restraining himself from rolling his eyes – it was a childish act, and he was a child no longer – he fell in step with Leliana and ventured further into the dungeon.

They encountered very few guards, and what resistance they ran into was dealt with swiftly and ruthlessly. Leliana had no real love for people who took part in or even simply allowed torture – he couldn't be sure, but he suspected that there was a  _personal_  reason for her deep hatred of torture – and as for Zevran... images of the Warden's broken body lying on a rack lent a deadly edge to his attacks, and he knew his face was the cold, hard mask of a man pushed beyond fear and anger into a dark place where nothing mattered except finding the Warden safe and sound.

And then, suddenly, they were there, in the dungeon itself, and he could see that two of the cells were occupied. Which held his Warden, he couldn't tell.

But first...

He saw the jail keeper rush at him, and his lips twisted in a vicious mockery of a smile as he met the attack. One, two, three heartbeats, and the keeper lay dead at his feet.

His forearms were soaked in blood, and he knew more of the stuff had splattered all over him. Leliana, too, had some blood over her, a result of having to occasionally fight dirty when she didn't have time to use her bow. He imagined that they made quite an unnerving image as he opened the door of the closest occupied cell and swung the door open.

The Warden was sitting on the floor of the cell, his back propped up by the wall. His eyes were closed, his head bowed as if asleep. Or dead.

But when the door swung open to bang against the side of the cell, that head lifted, and the Warden's eyes opened to stare at them, his face blank and devoid of any emotion.

Zevran's eyes swept over the Warden's body. The guards had removed all clothes and armour, leaving him in his loincloth. There was bruising, ugly patches of colour over the hard planes of his face and body, and his lip was puffy, with a wicked split that did not look entirely dry. His wrists and ankles bore the too-familiar chafe marks of heavy shackles. But there were no odd bends or twists, and the eyes that stared at them were bright and clear.

_He's fine._

Relief crashed into him, sweeping away the ugly ball of fear that had been sitting low in his belly, leaving him almost numb. He felt a brief spurt of anger – if the Warden was  _fine_ , why didn't he try to escape? – but it was quickly overwhelmed, and Zevran was left feeling... wrung out. He did _not_  quite fall against the side of the door and sag, but he did have to force his knees to lock themselves before they gave out under him.

"There you are!" Leliana's tone was light and cheerful – only the unusual roughness of her voice showed that she had been truly worried before. "Follow me. The arl is waiting for us."

The corners of the Warden's lips twitched as he slowly stood up, and then he was striding towards them, only just slightly unsteady on his feet.

"Took you long enough." His voice sounded harsh and dry, as if he had gone for hours without water. "I think that the guards have my things locked in a chest somewhere, Leliana. Can you fetch them for me?" His lips twisted in a wry smirk, forcing a little trickle of blood out of the split. "I'd hate to run through enemy territory stark naked. The weather is too chilly for that sort of thing."

"Of course!" Leliana stared at the Warden for a little while longer, her eyes wide and oddly shiny, before she smiled and turned away, presumably to look for the Warden's equipment.

Zevran's attention immediately shifted, fixed on the man that was suddenly standing inches away from him, close enough that he had to tilt his head back for their eyes to meet.

"...  _well._ " Zevran pulled up his best cocky grin, leaning back so he can support himself on the frame of the door, and tuned his voice to the best flippant tone he could muster. "It seems like we got here in time. You don't look very good."  _Still, better than I expected._

The Warden shrugged. "Could be worse. I'm lucky that they were more interested in executing me than beating any information out of me." His eyes narrowed. "The guards didn't prove too difficult, did they?"

Zevran's grin widened as he raised his arms up. "I'm unharmed."

The Warden said nothing for a while, his still-narrowed eyes roaming over Zevran, studying, inspecting. Looking for injuries, he realised, and he saw the moment where the hard tension in the Warden's frame eased.

_He was worried for me._

The thought made his heart stop, and then start hammering in his chest. Suddenly he was aware that they were standing close,  _too close_ , enough that he could feel the heat radiating off the Warden's body. The urge to flatten himself against the solid wall of muscle in front of him was almost overwhelming; he wanted to cover the bruises and cuts and scrapes that he could see with his hands, and then his lips.

He wanted to ease the discomfort that he was sure the Warden felt, and distract him with an entirely different sort of discomfort.

More than that, he wanted to reclaim every inch of skin that was touched by hands other than his own, because the Warden was  _his_ , and his alone.

Swallowing past a too-tight throat, he found himself staring at the trickle of blood by the Warden's lip. His hand was halfway raised before he realised that he'd moved, fingers itching to wipe away that ribbon of red –

A hand closed around his. Gripped it gently, but firmly.

"I don't think you'll want to touch me while I'm bleeding," the Warden said softly.

Zevran blinked, and jerked his arm back, reclaiming his hand. "Well, you don't look very presentable right now, and you need to see the Arl, no?" He intended the remark to be flippant; the rough-edged, almost angry growl of his voice startled him.

The Warden laughed softly. "I promise I'll clean up before I go to see Eamon. After I catch up with whatever has been happening while I was down here..." One of the Warden's eyes closed in a slow, deliberate wink, his lips curving ever so slightly. "Then you're free to touch me wherever you want... however you want."

The slow, soft croon of the Warden's voice felt like a tangible, too-warm thing curling around his insides, and Zevran had to fight to suppress a shiver at the clear invitation in the Warden's eyes.

Then his mind finally processed the actual  _words_  he'd heard, and he frowned. Surely not... "Are you offering what I think you're offering?"

The Warden blinked, slowly, and his expression was perfectly innocent – the sort that could only be worn by people who really  _weren't_. "... Maybe." That innocence was broken by a too-wide grin, and the Warden stepped back. "But we'll talk later. There are some pressing matters to attend to, and this place is wicked cold."

And that was how Zevran found himself staring at a wall as the Warden walked to where Leliana was crouching beside an open chest, fussing over a jumbled mess of armour and items.

_You're free to touch me wherever you want... however you want._

Zevran closed his eyes and thumped his head back against the door frame behind him, a rueful chuckle threatening to wiggle out of his throat. He wasn't entirely sure if the Warden really did just mean what those words sounded like, but... the invitation in those sharp eyes, and the vague, lightly _taunting_  answer.

The sneaky bastard was baiting him. Again. Unsurprising, all things considered, and consistent with the Warden's general behaviour, but there was that  _offer..._

Oh, they'd done many things over the past few months. Many creative,  _pleasurable_  things. But there was always one particular line that Zevran haven't crossed, and the Warden had said nothing to indicate that he wanted...

Why now? What changed?

His mind circled around the questions. And came up with nothing.

_We'll talk later._

… Well. Zevran supposed that there was no harm in talking. And if the Warden insisted in examining some things that Zevran would rather not acknowledge... he'd deal with that hurdle when he came to it.

For now, though, he needed to whisk the Warden away to somewhere safe. He reached back, withdrew his dagger, and knew that a hard smile was twisting his lips even as he jauntily twirled the blade in his fingers.

There would be resistance while they escaped, and he would welcome it. These fools would pay for hurting what was  _his._

_~to be continued~_


	41. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to SiaLater for catching my errors and telling me how to tame them.

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 40_

* * *

The escape from Fort Drakon was uneventful; except for the token handful of guards at the servant's entrance, they'd somehow managed to avoid most of the guards in the fortress. On another day, Zevran would have considered the end of their little adventure "disappointingly boring". As it were, he felt only relief that the Warden was not forced to fight too hard, which may further aggravate any injuries he had.

Not that one would realise the Warden was injured at first glance; wearing full plate, he still carried himself with the grim, quietly intimidating air of a man confident in his ability to maim and kill, and anyone who'd heard of the Warden would have already known about his prowess in the battlefield. Zevran had noted the fear and dismay in the guards who'd realised the Warden had escaped, and it was easy enough to dispose of them when they were already mentally retreating. And their little ragtag team were left alone while they navigated Denerim's usually treacherous streets; Leliana had murmured that they were being watched, but whoever was observing them seem content to leave them be.

Still, Zevran kept his hand on his dagger, his eyes on any suspicious shadows, and his emotions under a very tight lid, until they crossed the threshold into Eamon's estate.

Their arrival was met with excited cheer mingled with sharp relief; the Warden had returned, mostly unharmed, which was far better than what everyone had expected for a person thrown into Fort Drakon's dungeons. A suspiciously wet-eyed Alistair even went so far as to wrap the Warden in a tight bear hug, muttering about brothers and comrades and self-sacrificing idiots, making the Warden flush with embarrassment beneath his helmet while amusing everyone else.

The Warden eventually untangled himself from Alistair, only to be dragged away by Wynne, who tutted and fussed over him as she whisked him to someplace where she could examine his injuries. Zevran just barely restrained himself from following them; Wynne was a good healer, and his Warden needed the healing. So he swallowed his fears, respected the unspoken rule about leaving Wynne to her work, and retreated somewhere to clean himself up.

An ewer filled with steaming water and a basin with a washcloth was waiting for him on the washstand when he'd finished putting away his weapons and armour, finally letting himself into the large, barracks-like room that he technically shared with the rest of the Warden's companions, but he'd never actually spent a night in; the others were long used to the fact that Zevran never slept in his own bed, ever since he'd started having sex with the Warden. Leliana was nowhere to be seen, but she wasn't drenched in blood the way he was, given her way of fighting; she wouldn't feel the need to clean up as urgently as he did. Mildly relieved that he did not have to force himself to deal with company, he efficiently cleaned most of the blood off. And felt considerably better.

At least, he felt  _physically_ better.

The Warden was out of immediate danger. Without that distraction, he was free to examine his own actions, and the thoughts that had driven them. He let his mind drift over what had happened, found unexpected shifts in his mental landscape, leading to his unforeseen reactions.

That day's adventure in Fort Drakon flared in his mind. He knew that if Leliana had not found him, had not volunteered to help him, he would have gone to rescue the Warden alone, unaided. He had known that it would likely end badly for him – a solitary, clearly foreign elf was not a convincingly trustworthy figure, especially from the perspective of the average Ferelden guardsman – but even though the chances of a lone Crow surviving a fortress of trained guards were impossible to none, he would do it anyway, for the Warden's sake. There had been no doubt in his mind about that; he was perfectly willing to die for the sake of one man. And he knew that, if asked, he would do precisely that all over again if necessary.

The idea made him mentally quake.

It made no sense. There was nothing rational about his reaction to the Warden's capture. There was nothing logical, nothing practical, about metaphorically throwing himself into a den of rabid dogs with little care or thought about his own survival.

Then there was the way he dealt with the resistance in Fort Drakon.

There was a lot more blood on his weapons and armour than he'd realised, once he started taking them off; his gloves were practically dyed red, and part of his hair, when he reached up to untie the braids, was sticky and matted. He knew that he'd been more brutal than necessary when fighting his way through Fort Drakon, but he didn't realise how  _vicious_  he'd been. He wasn't just fighting to kill, but to slaughter. To maim and harm and cause the most pain possible before finally ending a life.

This was not the cold efficiency of a Crow; this was the fierce savagery of a man fueled by emotion.

Zevran had acted not as the Warden's rescuer, but as the Warden's avenger.

Since when did he believe, even subconsciously, that he had the right to defend the Warden in that manner?

He scowled as he strode towards the Warden's room, more than a little irritated at himself, but also – disturbingly – less irritated than he should be.

He should have foreseen this complication when he embarked on this arrangement, this  _affair_  with the Warden. The risk of emotional investment should have been obvious, given how easily the Warden drew his attention from the moment that they had first met. Zevran had seen how ardour can drive even the sanest man completely mad; many princes in Antiva had fallen prey to their passions, whether orchestrated or by accident. He'd seduced the Warden – and let himself be seduced.

He thought that he'd started this affair with the reins firmly in his grasp. Even when the Warden surprised him with unexpected interest, he'd assumed that all was well, if slightly off-track. He had not anticipated the Warden's blatant affection for him, had found himself at a loss to deal with such a thing, but he'd believed that it was a passing fancy, the sort of closeness forced by having to rely on each other to stay alive. Even when the Warden made that promise to never hurt him, and Zevran found himself trusting the Warden's words, he still didn't,  _couldn_ _'_ _t_  think of their growing closeness as something more than an unusually-close comradeship.

Until that unexpected ambush by Taliesen.

Zevran remembered, clear as day, how the Warden had quietly, but  _deliberately_ , raised his arm and revealed that weakness in his armour in the guise of protective posturing. It was a test, and even now, Zevran felt the brief flare of ire at the memory, knowing that the Warden would be foolish enough to place his life in  _his_  hands. The damn idiot  _trusted_  Zevran – the same person who'd once tried to take that very life – to  _not_  kill him when given the chance.

And then there was the rescue from Fort Drakon. The Warden had seemed ridiculously calm, as if he had known... no, had  _expected_  Zevran to look for him and rescue him. Zevran had little doubt that, given the opportunity, the Warden could easily fight or trick his way out of the dungeon, but the Warden had made the choice to stay put, and wait for a rescue.

It made Zevran want to strangle him all over again.

Standing in front of the door to the Warden's room, Zevran debated doing just that.

What if Zevran had been too slow, too late? What if he did not have Leliana's assistance? What if, what if – ?

It was complete folly to place one's life in the hands of someone of Zevran's ilk. He was a killer, a murderer, a son of a whore with nothing to call his own. And the Warden...  _his_  Warden was a man driven by honour and duty and who had proven, again and again, that he was willing to sacrifice himself to protect and defend those lesser than him.

A nobleman born and bred, who had the arrogance and pride inherent to his class, but who was also someone willing to listen to a tearful young woman and agreeably look for her missing brother, who mingled with half-trained village militia, perfectly at-ease, sharing ale and stories and claps on the back for surviving through that horrific night in Redcliffe.

A nobleman who had lost his family through horrific circumstances, and had readily agreed to find the missing son of a grieving mother, but also the same man who had, very carefully, lied to that mother so she would not walk to her death or worse in the Deep Roads, as her lost son had pleaded for him to do.

A nobleman who had pledged to end the Blight and to avenge his family, but who was also a man willing to make time to help his comrades, to listen to their worries and their problems and then to find ways to solve those problems, or at least bring enough closure to ease their minds and their hearts. It could be argued that the Warden did this to keep his followers focused, but Zevran had watched as the Warden quietly muttered romantic advice to a hopelessly idiotic dwarf, faced a dragon-witch to retrieve an ancient tome, hunted all over the sprawl of Denerim for a woman whose half-brother had not spoken to for years, barged into the hiding place of a trained and dangerously paranoid bard in order to keep  _his_  bard safe, travelled all over Ferelden to track a prized sword, and ventured deep into an enchanted wood to look for a missing mage. An efficient, ruthless leader would never had bothered to do all of those things, and Zevran knew the Warden was capable of being cold when he needed to be. The Warden did all of these not because he sought the loyalty of his companions, but simply  _because_  they are  _his_ _companions_ , and he cared for them well enough to keep them as happy as he could.

Not just a noble by blood, but also one in spirit. In other words, someone who was far above Zevran's reach in every way possible.

And this same man trusted Zevran with his very life.

What did Zevran do to deserve such a thing?

It was heady – and terrifying – to know that he had that much sway over such a clearly formidable man. To know that, if he so chose, he could easily destroy the Warden, without the other suspecting him until it was far too late... Zevran didn't know if he should be proud that he had been given that trust, or to feel humbled by it.

"The Warden isn't in his room."

The remark jolted him out of his thoughts, and he turned in the direction where the voice came from.

Leaning nonchalantly against a wall, nearly hidden by the shadow of a pillar, Morrigan stared at him with her cold, golden eyes.

"Morrigan." Zevran straightened, but kept the urge to scowl at her in check. "Did you see where the Warden went?"

She smiled briefly, a flashing glint of teeth. "Oh, do not worry. He has simply gone to confer with the queen on some matters of grave importance, or so I had overheard. Something about alliances and kings."

His eyes narrowed at the sly tone of her voice. He wasn't sure if Morrigan was simply baiting him out of spite, or if she was, in her own way, warning him about something. Either way, the idea of the Warden and Queen Anora... there was a sudden, sharp pang in his chest, which he quickly buried. Morrigan was not the sort of person that anyone with wits would ever show a weakness to, and Zevran liked to think that he wasn't a  _complete_  fool.

"The Warden does need the queen's cooperation," he said in the most neutral tone he could manage. "Out of all of us, he would be the best person know how to negotiate for her aid."

"Why? Because he is our leader of sorts? Or because he is a nobleman, the son of a teyrn, and thus the one who is closest in rank here to her?"

Zevran shrugged. "It isn't my concern."

Morrigan let out a laugh, harsh and sharp. "Really? Because the Warden does seem to be your greatest concern. Everyone in this forsaken place is talking about your daring rescue of the Warden from the hands of his tormentors. 'Tis sickening, really, how much sentiment people can attach to such a simple task." Her eyes narrowed. "But perhaps you're the one most affected by sentiment. After all, 'twas risky for you to break and enter such a place, alone and unaided."

 _What_ _game_ _is_ _the_ _witch_ _playing_ _at_ _?_  "I had Leliana's help."

Morrigan snorted and waved her hand dismissively, as if flicking away an insect. "Oh, do not be modest about it. We have spent far too much time on the road with each other; we both know that you would go alone if you had to, and that if you have to rescue the Warden again, you would do so willingly."

Zevran pulled his lips into a smile. It felt more like he was baring his teeth. "Oh, you never know. One of these days it might seem like too much trouble, and I simply wouldn't bother."

"Really? So you would willingly let the Warden  _die_ _?_ "

The question – direct, to-the-point – was like a blow to his chest, stabbing him with a lance of sudden fear. He stared at her, eyes wide, before he forced his face into a blank mask. He knew that it was too late, and even now he had no idea how to suppress that instinctual moment of terror at the very thought of the Warden  _dead_.

Morrigan, damn her, saw every moment of it. Her lips curved as she pushed herself off the wall, and she walked towards him, her hips swaying in a hypnotic rhythm with each deliberate step she took.

An outsider looking at her would think that she was a woman intent on seduction.

Zevran looked at her, and saw a predator intent on cornering its prey.

"I do wonder... how far will you go to keep the Warden alive? We all know you are capable of murder; 'tis your chosen profession, after all." Her teeth flashed in a vicious parody of a smile. "The Warden is, at his core, a man of honour and duty, which makes him a good ally, but it also makes him too willing to sacrifice himself for his so-called principles. He does not have the stomach for making the most  _practical_  choice when it comes to certain decisions, especially if it involves his own life."

Zevran felt himself stiffen, anger forcing his muscles into tenseness. "If that is your way of implying that the Warden is a  _fool_ –" he snarled.

"I wasn't finished," she drawled, her eyes flashing with amusement. "I was about to say that 'tis good that you are here with him, and that he keeps you so close. Perhaps your influence may rub off on him, and he would learn some self-preservation instincts. Men like him are hard to find, and harder still to keep."

He stared. Blinked. Felt his mouth curve in a teasing smirk. "Did you just give your blessing?"

Morrigan rolled her eyes, and leveled a glare at him. "I am simply stating what I think."

Zevran laughed. He didn't mean to, but he couldn't suppress the bubble of hysteria that welled up.  _Too_ _much_ _stress_ _and_ _too_ _much_ _to_ _think_ , he thought to himself, feeling a little crazed. Morrigan was scowling at him, though, and he laughed even harder.

"Oh, don't look so angry," he said, keeping his tone light and teasing. "Such frowns do not do your beauty justice at all. As I had once said before, yours should be a face that smiles." He grinned. "I confess myself surprised that you would show such  _care_  over the Warden's well-being. Do you fancy him for yourself, perhaps?"

The  _look_  in Morrigan's eyes was pure venom. It left him in little doubt that, given the chance, she would skin him right here and now. His grin only widened; even if anger didn't show Morrigan to her best advantage, the fire in her eyes and the flush in her cheeks still made her dangerously beautiful. "Do not presume to understand what I think,  _elf_ ," she snapped. "What I think of the Warden is none of your business."

"Well, if that's the case, then it should be fair that any business between the Warden and I should be none of yours, hm?" he said, in the sweetest tone he could manage.

Morrigan raised her brows, but – to Zevran's surprise – she simply threw her head back and laughed. "Well played, assassin," she said. "Well played. But enough of this talk; that was not the reason why I am here."

"Oh,  _finally_ , she gets to the point."

Morrigan's eyes narrowed at his scathing tone, but her voice, when she spoke, remained calm. "The Arl has been quite busy while you were away playing the rescuing hero. He is spending a lot of time talking to Alistair," she said with a snort. "No doubt the old man is still trying to convince the fool to seize the crown. 'Twould seem that Queen Anora is reluctant to give up her power, however, so Arl Eamon is in a quandary. If Alistair does not commit to taking the throne, Queen Anora's popularity and influence will prevent him from accomplishing Eamon's goal. And Alistair, the fool that he is, seems to turn a deaf ear to Eamon's words."

"... I see you've been busy eavesdropping." Zevran crossed his arms, raised his brows in question. "And yet you are here, talking to me. How does all of that concern me, exactly?"

Morrigan gave him an incredulous look. "Really? Has it not occurred to you? You, an assassin under the protection of the Grey Wardens, and Alistair a Warden himself?  _Think_ _of_ _it_ , Zevran," she said, her eyes glittering with a truly frightening amount of excitement. "You may have stumbled into a most delightful possibility for your future."

Zevran snorted. "Oh? Are you giving out professional advice now?"

If Morrigan was offended by the snide tone of his voice, she chose not to show it. She simply shook her head, and said, "It simply occurs to me that if, say, Alistair were to become king of Ferelden he may have need of someone of your...  _talents_ _._ "

Zevran felt his eyebrows climb up his forehead. The very idea of Alistair employing Zevran as a  _royal_ _assassin_... he let out a bark of incredulous laughter. "From what I know of the fellow, it seems there would be a fair difference between what he needed and what he cared to make use of."  _And_ _Alistair_ _is_ _far_ _too_ _soft_ _-_ _hearted_ _to_ _order_ _a_ _professional_ _killing_ _,_ _regardless_ _of_ _how_ _necessary_ _it_ _might_ _be_ _to_ _secure_ _his_ _power_ _._

Morrigan waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. "If Alistair becomes king, it would certainly not be through any brilliance on his part. Whoever puts him there... now there's the one who will need you."

Zevran opened his mouth, about to ask Morrigan what sort of spirits she had been imbibing to make her think that Eamon might even consider using his services, even if he managed to do the impossible and convinced Alistair to take the throne... but then he saw her expression, smug and confident and  _knowing_ , and he shut his mouth. Thought carefully about what she just said.

Realised that this wasn't about Eamon at all.

True, Eamon might had been the man that raised Alistair, who saw the arl as a kind of replacement father. Alistair cared for and respected Eamon, and Zevran had little doubt that, if Eamon was around when Zevran had first met Alistair, Eamon would be Alistair's first source of advice and guidance.

But the fight against the Blight had changed Alistair in many ways. He was older, wiser, more experienced in the ways of the world, and – for better or worse, Zevran had yet to determine – he had become far more skeptical and cynical. The Alistair that travelled with the Warden now was someone who was less likely to take anyone's words at face value, which might explain his seeming reluctance to immediately leap to Eamon's beck and call.

But the Warden... he was the one man who Alistair still trusted implicitly, whose orders he would follow without question or doubt. If there was anyone who could convince Alistair to not only become king, but to believe that becoming king would be the  _right_ _thing_ _to_ _do_ , it was the Warden. And Zevran knew the Warden was a different breed of man from Alistair, or even the likes of Eamon. He was far more driven, determined, and – when necessary – mercilessly ruthless.

He remembered how the Warden had no protests when the newly-crowned King Bhelen had ordered Lord Harrowmont's execution, his face as hard as the stone that surrounded them.

Remembered that, in response to Alistair's disbelieving questions later, the Warden had shrugged and said, "Sometimes, Alistair, there is simply no room for mercy."

Not a squeamish man, his Warden.

There was also the Warden's unshakable loyalty to Ferelden, in spite of the fact that, from Zevran's limited understanding, the Grey Wardens were supposed to be politically neutral. The Warden  _would_  involve himself in Ferelden politics, even if only from the shadows. And when it comes to the shadowy side of politics, an assassin's particular set of skills were always in high demand. It was a convenient excuse to stay within the protection of the Grey Wardens, if he needed it.

Assuming that the Warden wanted to keep him around in the first place.

Or that it was wise to stay so close to someone who held so much power over him.

His lips twisted in the barest hint of a grimace, quickly suppressed; it would not do to show his thoughts so clearly on his face, not when a sharp-eyed witch was watching for his reaction. The smile he gave Morrigan felt a little too tight. "Now that's an interesting thought," he said with forced casualness, and gave her his best lascivious leer. "You've such a devious mind, my dear. Why have we not made love as of yet?"

The look Morrigan gave him was cold enough to freeze Orzammar's lava pools. "For what purpose? I would sooner stab you in the face then let you touch me, elf."

"And somehow that makes the idea all even more intriguing..." he murmured, smirking at the disgusted expression on her face.

"I truly cannot comprehend how the Warden can stand to keep you so close to him," she said. "but he seems to care for you greatly, the besotted fool, and he is stubborn. He may even keep you with him if he decides to marry the Queen after all."

Zevran's thoughts abruptly ground to a halt. "What?"

Morrigan shrugged. "As I had said before, I overheard the Warden and Eamon discussing the Queen's widowed state," she said, her tone matter-of-fact. "The Warden seems to be considering how to take advantage of that, and he has gone to talk to the Queen right after. No doubt he wishes to ensure the Queen is cooperating with us. Eamon did not sound pleased about the idea of keeping Anora in power, but he could hardly challenge the Warden."

 _Not_ _when_ _the_ _Warden_ _is_ _pivotal_ _to_ _ensuring_ _that_ _Loghain_ _is_ _eliminated_ _,_ _and_ _when_ _he_ _also_ _holds_ _plenty_ _of_ _influence_ _over_ _Alistair_ _._  "The Warden is the sort of man who would do things his way, regardless of opposition," Zevran murmured.

"Precisely so." Morrigan laughed. "'Tis quite convenient if he and the Queen were to marry, really. Spares the kingdom from being ruled by Alistair, and the Warden has a stronger reason to keep you around as his personal assassin."

Zevran made a noncommittal hum, his eyes narrowing. "Maybe. But I am curious, my dear. Why the sudden interest in my 'future', as you put it?" He raised his brows. "You've made your distaste for me quite clear, and I doubt that you are doing this out of the goodness of your heart."

Morrigan's smile was dagger-sharp, and far from friendly. "I am simply concerned for my own safety. Our little party has become quite famous, do you not know? Word is spreading about the Warden's merry band of companions, and sooner or later those stories will fall on the ears of those who do not like apostates. I do not wish to be hunted by Templars, or end up locked in some Maker-forsaken tower. If the Warden stays alive, 'twould be easy to use his influence to avoid both fates. Your presence helps ensure his long-term survival, and in turn that ensures my long-term freedom."

Ah. Well. Typical of Morrigan, to think of her own survival first and foremost. But Zevran could not shake off the niggling suspicion that she was not telling him the whole truth. He stared at her, unsure if he should accept her words as they are, despite the strong logical sense of her reasoning. Morrigan was a woman of many secrets, and he never could figure out what her motives were, but questioning her would likely prove fruitless; in addition to being an extraordinarily beautiful woman and an extremely deadly mage, she one of the most skillful liars he ever had the opportunity to meet. "Is that all you have to say, then?"

"For now." She turned around, and started to walk away. "Think about what I have said, Zevran," she said without looking back. "'Twould be a waste if the Warden died too soon, after all the trouble you went through to save him."

She vanished around a corner before he could think of a reply.

He spent several heartbeats simply staring at the empty corridor, before he let himself fall back, propping himself against the door behind him, his eyelids sliding closed as he silently cursed Morrigan with every foul expletive he knew.

Damn that conniving, manipulative bitch. He could not figure out her intentions, try as he might, and his thoughts on the Warden were more than messy enough without her words. He had little doubt that the Warden was highly likely to ask him to stay on, once this business with archdemons and crowns have been settled. Even if the Warden decided to not take the throne for himself (and isn't that an amusing thought, his Warden wearing a crown and ermine cape?), he wouldn't distance himself from Ferelden's politics.

But was it truly wise to allow himself to remain under the Warden's influence?

More importantly, was it wise to let the Warden rely on him?

"Zevran?"

Zevran opened his eyes, and found his Warden staring at him.

He looked... well, as good as someone could look after spending some quality time in a dungeon. The various cuts and scrapes were gone, no doubt from Wynne's healing, but there were still patches of sickly yellow on his skin, where the worst bruises had been. He looked too pale, but here he was, alive and whole.

Zevran glanced at a particularly large patch on the Warden's face, where a rather spectacular black eye had been. "Someone didn't let Wynne finish her work, I see." His voice came out sharp and harsh, and Zevran inwardly winced at the tone.

The Warden gave him a bemused look, with just the slightest touch of a frown furrowing his brow. "I really doubt that minor bruises were going to incapacitate me. Wynne really shouldn't have to exert herself over them."

 _Because we all know that she did not have much time left, and I would not let her drain more of that time._ The gentle, unspoken reprimand that Zevran could see from the Warden's mild glare and thinned lips made a hint of shame curl cold and painful in Zevran's gut.

An image of the Warden, hurt and exposed in Fort Drakon, flickered in his mind's eye, and abruptly that shame burst into a flash of heated anger. "Maybe if you hadn't kindly volunteered to hand yourself on a silver platter to the enemy, Wynne didn't have to do that healing in the first place," he snapped.

This time the Warden raised both eyebrows. He blinked, once, before giving Zevran a narrow-eyed look. Not one of his angry glares, but a look that was significantly more thoughtful. "Perhaps this is something that is best discussed behind closed doors," the Warden eventually said, after a moment of silence.

Zevran clenched his jaw, and shifted, moving away from the door. The Warden pushed the door, stepping into his –  _their_  – room, and held the door open; a gesture that was both invitation and command. One that Zevran, after a moment's hesitation, followed.

Someone had thoughtfully laid out a meal for them on the small table before the fireplace. The Warden made a beeline for the table, and picked up a silver decanter.

"Before you yell at me," the Warden said, his tone light as he slowly filled a pair of goblets with wine. "I would like to say that I know that what I did was reckless. I put my life on the line, not knowing whether I could find a way out of the dungeon Ser Cauthrien would throw me in. Not exactly the smartest of decisions, and I won't blame you for being angry at me." He straightened, turned around, and his face was hard with determination when he looked at Zevran. "But if you expect me to apologise for taking that risk, I won't. You can hit me, or walk out, but I will not be sorry for risking my life to save yours."

 _Maker_ _'_ _s_ _breath_ _._

It took a lot of effect to suppress the reflexive flinch from hearing the Warden's words, or seeing the Warden lift his chin, as if he expected to be punched. Zevran closed his eyes, took a deep breath. Tried to calm himself, even as his temper threatened to boil over. "I won't hit you," he said, in as even a tone as he can manage. "I am  _not_ _happy_  that you did what you did, but I will not hit you because of it." He opened his eyes, and met the Warden's gaze. "I only want to know why."

The Warden snorted. "You were there. You saw Cauthrien's forces. The odds were against us. Perhaps we might have escaped, but at what cost? We could have easily died there and then. Trying to force our way out would had been suicidal."

 _"Suicidal?"_ Zevran was aware his voice had risen to a shout, but at that moment he simply did not care. "And how is offering yourself up like a sacrificial lamb somehow  _less_ suicidal? They could have  _killed_  you! "

 _"I'd rather die if that's the only way that I could keep you alive!"_ The Warden yelled back, but his voice was odd, harsh and rough as if he was choking. "Maker save me, but I love you and I will  _not_ let you die because of me!"

The silence that followed immediately was deafening.

Zevran sucked in a breath, but it felt as if his lungs had frozen in his chest. He was light-headed, dizzy,  _numb_ , and he could only watch as the Warden paled, and then reddened, his expression a strange mix of flustered embarrassment and calm resolve.

"You don't," Zevran said, his voice sounding very far away and nearly drowned out by the buzzing in his ears.  _You_ _'_ _re_ _in_ _shock_ , his mind unhelpfully supplied. "You can't love me."

"I wasn't aware that I needed permission," the Warden retorted.

"But you said – " Zevran shook his head. "No.  _No_ _._  You don't know what that means."

The Warden rolled his eyes. "Zevran, I grew up having to watch my parents snogging and pawing at each other whenever they think they can get away with it. My brother married an Antivan merchant's daughter, despite the many offers of eligible Ferelden ladies and the noisy protests from some parties about how he's  _sullying_  our noble lineage with a commoner. I think I can safely say that I know how love looks like, and I  _know_  how I feel about you." He stepped forward, and Zevran wanted to back away, but his feet felt as if they had rooted themselves to the floor. Before he could force them to move, the Warden was suddenly  _there_ , right in front of him, a strong arm winding around his waist and pulling him against a firm body while a hand under his chin tipped his head back and then the Warden was kissing him.

It was nothing like any kiss they had ever shared. He could feel the Warden's desire, but that desire was restrained, held back so it felt less like he was claiming and more like...

He was  _pleading_.

Begging.

Zevran sensed the difference in intent. Felt it in the heavy thud of the Warden's heart beneath the hand that he had, without realising, braced on the Warden's chest. Felt it in the way the mouth on his moved to entice, to cajole and persuade, with none of the dominating aggression that he had come to associate with the Warden.

Before he could even think to respond, the Warden pulled back. "I love you, Zevran."

"You don't – " Zevran started to protest, but the Warden kissed him again, harder and fiercer but no less needy, kissed him until Zevran was breathless and shaking before he pulled back again.

"Yes, I do," he said, and Zevran could hear the unshakable conviction beneath those simple words, could see the absolute belief in the Warden's darkened eyes.

A belief that Zevran had no confidence in, had no faith in, but it was clear that the Warden did.

Even then, when the Warden's lips met his again, Zevran could not pull away, could not stop himself from raising both hands up to cup the Warden's face as he sank into the kiss with a desperation he never allowed himself to feel. Because the Warden was here, alive and well, not rotting in a dungeon or in some unmarked grave –

 _ _I'd rather die if that's the only way that I could keep you alive__.

Those words, uttered just moments earlier, echoed in his mind, and it was like being doused with a bucket of icy water; Zevran gasped and wrenched away from their kiss, pushing against the Warden's shoulders. The Warden let go of him, likely startled by his sudden struggling, and Zevran managed to stumble a few steps back.

"No! I – " His voice sounded high-pitched, edged with panic and fear, and Zevran had to gulp in a breath and count to three before he dared to speak again, in a slightly calmer voice. "No." He raised his eyes up to meet the Warden's puzzled gaze. "I mean no offence. I simply..." His throat tightened, his emotions a wild swirl of  _too_ _much_ _too_ _soon_  in his chest. "No."

Zevran saw the Warden's face fall, looking hurt and confused, before the Warden frowned and tilted his head. "Is something wrong?"

_Nothing_ _._

_Everything_ _._

Zevran shuddered. He wished, desperately, that the Warden was joking when he said that he was willing to die for Zevran. But he had seen the Warden's face, saw the depth of his conviction, and knew that the Warden was deadly ( _hah_ _!_ ) serious about every word.

Morrigan, damn her, was right. If the Warden thought that sacrificing himself would accomplish what he thought was the "best" result, he would gladly do so. And just like before, Zevran felt that sudden, piercing fear – which only terrified him even more.

_Oh_ _,_ _Zevran_ _,_ _you_ _stupid_ _,_ _sentimental_ _fool_ _._

He had fallen in love with this stubborn, infuriating, brilliant man, with no idea how he had done so, and he knew, without a single doubt, that he would never be the same again.

He looked into the Warden's increasingly-concerned gaze, feeling conflicted.  _Torn_. Every bit of his training yelled at him to  _leave now_ , and every bit of his instincts told him to  _stay_.

He didn't know what to do.

What he did know was that now was not the time to discuss this. He  _could not_  discuss this. This was all too soon, too raw, everything about this realisation far too new for him to be able to face.

He needed time.

"I do not wish to talk about it," he said, trying for sternness, but it was a weak effort. His voice wavered far too much, revealing more than he wanted to.

And of course, the Warden, his brilliant and too-perceptive lover, caught that hesitant note. One winged eyebrow rose in a sceptical question. "Are you sure?" He stepped forward, his hand rising and cupping the side of Zevran's face, thumb stroking across a tattooed cheekbone. "You look like you want to talk about it."

It took every bit of Zevran's will to not turn his head and lean further into the reassuring touch of the Warden's hand. The Warden's tone was gentle, soft.  _Persuasive_ _._  A siren's call that tempted Zevran to disregard every single thing he had learned, to forget all he ever knew about how the world worked, and simply  _give in_.

Which was precisely the reason why Zevran shouldn't. Because that way, the way of selfish desire, lay folly. This, at least, he was sure of. He gave too much of himself to Rina, and look where  _that_  landed him. He was older, wiser, and he would  _not_  make the same mistake again.

Snarling, he grabbed the Warden's arm and pushed that hand away. "Enough," he snapped. " I said  _I_ _am_ _not_ _interested_. Can you not understand that?" He stepped back, putting enough distance between him and the Warden, moving away from that tempting prize that his stupid heart desired. "There are other things for you to focus on besides me, I am certain. Do... do those."

A long moment ticked by, the room silent except for Zevran's slow, deliberate breaths as he tried to force his lungs to work against his too-tight chest. The Warden said nothing in reaction, face devoid of all expression, and then he closed his eyes, sighing out a breath before opening them again.

"For someone raised to be a master assassin, you really are a terrible liar."

Zevran felt a brief flash of offended pride. He was an Antivan Crow, and one of the best they had to offer – he could lie and cheat as well as any of his fellow assassins, his skills honed by years of training and experience. It was nothing for him to deceive and manipulate whenever necessary; a wise Crow sees anyone and everyone as expendable. Insignificant.

But that was the problem, wasn't it? The Warden was as far from 'insignificant' as it was possible for Zevran to imagine, curse his foolish heart. He could not even pretend that the Warden was someone who didn't matter – that he was not interested at all – especially to the man himself. The Warden knew Zevran far too well, through secrets and confidences exchanged between the two of them in whispered words during the aftermath of pleasure or the haze of too much brandy.

Even now, when the Warden was standing with his hands raised, palms facing outward – the very image of someone trying to calm and to reassure him – with his expression a fragile mix of rueful and wary, the only thing that Zevran truly wanted to do was to reach out and kiss away the badly-hidden fear he could see in the Warden's eyes.

And the Warden called him a terrible liar. Honestly, if Zevran was bad at lying to the Warden's face, than the Warden was just as terrible at hiding behind that inscrutable mask he used so often.

Or rather, Zevran was very adept at looking past the walls that he knew the Warden surrounded himself with. Because Zevran was not a  _complete_ idiot, and while he may have been wilfully blind to his own feelings until very recently, he had learned to read the Warden's intentions and emotions without needing to hear them being spoken out loud, to glean little insights into the Warden's mind through the little tics and tells from the Warden's face and body.

"Maker's breath, don't give me that look," Zevran said, not bothering to keep the exasperation out of his voice. "I already said before that I am with you until the very end, did I not? Did you really think I was going to  _leave_?"

The guilty expression that flickered across the Warden's face told him that he had guessed correctly, before that face hardened into something as close to meanness as he had ever seen from the Warden. "Oh, I don't know," the Warden said caustically, "Given your propensity for avoiding any conversation about  _feelings_ , I'm not really sure what I should be thinking. Seems to me as if you haven't stopped trying to run, despite what I had said to you back in Redcliffe. Still a coward, even after I told you that you can trust me."

The words were like a sharp slap to the face, and Zevran didn't fight the reflexive flinch; the Warden was right to call him a coward, after all. But Zevran could see the defensive hunch of the Warden's shoulders, the crossed arms and the too-bright eyes, and knew that the Warden was lashing out not from true anger, but from wounded pride and genuine hurt. He looked, in fact, like a lost little boy in a man's skin, and Zevran was abruptly reminded that the Warden was still a  _young_ _man_ , and carried the idealism of youth despite the burden of his duties and his willingness to be ruthless if need be. With his sheltered upbringing and lack of experience, he couldn't possibly understand how Zevran found the idea of love laughably difficult to swallow.

Well. Zevran more or less started the mess, even if they both contributed to it; he had to be the one to start fixing it.

Sighing, he stepped towards the Warden, feeling his heart break a little when the Warden just curled in further, face turning away and eyes squeezing shut. Steeling his spine, Zevran closed the distance between them before all courage deserted him, and he gave in the urge to run away.

He needed to fix this.

He raised his hand, cupped the Warden's face lightly and turned it back towards him. The Warden allowed it, but his eyes remained stubbornly closed.

"Warden," Zevran said, as gentle as he can manage. "Look at me." He waited a heartbeat, and when the Warden didn't respond, he sighed. "Please."

The Warden – thank the Maker – did as he was bid, opening his eyes and meeting Zevran's gaze.

Even now, being the absolute focus of the Warden's attention and fierce will still made Zevran feel like he was in danger of being swept away. This time, however, Zevran could see the true depth of the Warden's feelings, and knew them for what they were, despite the ugly uncertainty lurking beneath because of what just happened – what Zevran said and did.

Looking into the Warden's eyes, Zevran didn't know what to think. His emotions were a churning, roiling mess of old doubts and unexpected needs and tentative hope, and he couldn't even begin to try and untangle them into something that he could accept. Not yet.

"My dear Warden," Zevran said – and in that moment he truly longed to have known the Warden's name, and briefly resented that the Warden had not revealed that much to him. The title felt inadequate,  _shallow_ , but it would have to make do. "You told me to trust you, yes? And that you trust me?"

The Warden didn't say anything, but his head shifted, just the slightest bit, in the barest of nods.

"Then you must understand this." The next breath that Zevran dragged in shook; his lungs had tightened again, but he had to say the rest – had to take a risk, and see how it went. "I... what you said, about you loving me, is something that I never expected, and I do not know what am I supposed to say to that, or how I should accept it. You've surprised me, and I will not lie – this is something that I am not ready to accept yet. It is too difficult to think about now, when I barely understand what it means."

The Warden still remained silent, but Zevran could see, could feel, the tension starting to drain away with his words. He was listening, following. Understanding.

"What I need, now, is time. To think." Zevran let his hand drop, where it came to rest on the Warden's chest, over his heart. "I cannot accept your confession yet, not until I know I can give something similar back. You have to give me a bit of time. I need to think."

The Warden blinked, once, twice, and – finally – Zevran saw him relax, his arms uncrossing and dropping to his sides. "All right," he said. "I'll give you the time." His eyes narrowed. "But this is not something I can wait on forever."

"Fair enough," Zevran murmured.

"I was speaking to Arl Eamon earlier, before I came here. He mentioned a rumour of a survivor from Ostagar, and I need to investigate it. If this survivor exists, his testimony may be of use when it is time for the Landsmeet, and it is urgent that I bring him back alive. I will have to be quick, so I will only take Alistair, Leliana, and Alan with me, and leave at dawn tomorrow. The rest of you will have stay here to guard the Queen and the Arl. It should not take longer than a couple of weeks. That should be more than enough time for you to think."

Zevran felt a stab of fear at the thought of the Warden leaving – again! When he only just returned, safe and alive? – but he quashed it, knowing it would be of no use. "Very well." Zevran let out a rueful laugh. "Going again so soon. Alas. And here I was thinking that I was about to have several hours of very vigorous sex with you, to celebrate your safe return."

The Warden chuckled, briefly, but genuinely. "I don't think that's what you want now, or am I wrong?"

Zevran considered this, and shook his head. "I do not think I would feel comfortable with that," he admitted.

"Fair enough," the Warden said, in an odd echo of Zevran earlier. Smiling slightly, he leaned in, gave Zevran a chaste peck on the lips that somehow warmed Zevran to his toes. "Let us eat, then, and go to bed." He grasped Zevran's hand. "If you feel anything for me, though," the Warden murmured. "It shouldn't take long for you to think it through at all."

Zevran wasn't sure about that, but he didn't argue, allowing himself to be led towards the dinner table. "We'll see," he said, and that was all he could honestly say.

_~to be continued~_


	42. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to SiaLater, who is a wonderful beta and person

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 41_

* * *

Zevran would have liked to say that he found the realisation that he was in love with the Warden to be completely overwhelming. That he needed time to adjust to it, that he required a long while to wrap his mind around the truth of it all. He had been, in fact,  _terrified_  that he would find himself unsuited to grasp the whole concept of love, when the Crows have done their very best to turn him into a proper assassin, and his experiences with anything that involved sentiment had given him nothing but pain and hardship.

But the real truth is that, above all, Zevran was a  _practical_  man, and it just wasn't in his nature to wallow in self-pity for extended periods of time. When he first acknowledged to himself that he did love the Warden, his first reaction had been a shock that felt almost physical, like taking a step too far and falling off the end of a cliff. But barely a day after the Warden had left, once the numbness from the shock wore off, Zevran found the fall to be swift and short, with a pile of cushions at the bottom, winded and stunned but none the worse for wear. Cornered and forced to confront the depth of his feelings, Zevran found that the knowledge of it simply... _fit_. No panic, no horror, no discomfort. The idea of loving the Warden, and of being loved in return, did nothing more than cause his heart to swell with giddy  _joy_  in a way that he had believed himself incapable of ever feeling.

All in all, it was a bit anti-climactic. Zevran found it somewhat disappointing.

Unfortunately, it also meant that by the second week of waiting for the Warden's return, Zevran had started to grow  _bored out of his mind_.

"Guard the Queen and the Arl," the Warden had quietly ordered, just before he left for Ostagar. "If Loghain is as truly unhinged as Her Majesty had said, there is no way to predict to what lengths he will go to protect his Regency."

It rankled to be told to  _stay_ , like some kind of pet dog (and more importantly, unable to directly ensure the Warden's safety), but Zevran could hardly argue against the Warden's decision to leave most of them behind to guard his main trump card against Loghain in the landsmeet. The Warden's companions were all fiercely loyal in their own way, each of them fairly resistant to bribes and persuasions, and their combined might would put a swift end to any direct attack on the estate. They made quite the formidable Queen's guard. If a peculiarly colourful one.

Zevran, therefore, had no problem with the Warden's instructions.

Or so he thought for a while.

Indeed, he had quite a bit of fun weeding out and discreetly disposing of the usual shadowy types that ventured a little too close to his charges' proximity; it simply wouldn't do for any of the two to catch a nasty case of death by assassin, not after the effort put into saving their hides. It was the most efficient way he knew, it was good practice for his skills, and it had the added bonus of deterring additional spies once word of the constant  _disappearances_  started to spread.

Zevran privately suspected that the Warden wouldn't quite approve of his methods, but...well, if the Warden didn't know, he didn't need to worry about such trivial matters, and ignorance is bliss, no?

For the more  _unusual_  and noticeably more  _professional_  types, Zevran made sure to collect a little memento from each of them, and deliver the prizes to Ignacio's man in the Denerim marketplace. The incriminating slices of tattooed skin were as clear a statement as any that  _some_  Guildmasters were not very careful about which jobs were strictly off-limits for the time being, and the old fox would likely need all the help he could get to educate those stubborn individuals about the error of their ways.

Once he had cleaned out the vermin, however, Zevran found himself at a bit of a loss. There was very little to do at the estate that could hold his interest for long, and Zevran wasn't so chivalrous a soul that he found the idea of guarding the Queen of Ferelden to be a glamorously demanding task. She quite clearly remembered him as one of Loghain's hired Crows, and she also quite clearly didn't know what to make of his current role as one of the Warden's most trusted companions. Given her station, she was undoubtedly used to seeing elves as being subservient to humans, and the Warden quite openly treating Zevran as an equal had baffled her.

Bizarrely, with both Alistair and the Warden absent, the other companions appeared to defer to  _Zevran_  as acting leader of their merry band. He had overheard Oghren refer to him as "the Warden's right hand" once (an idea both amusing and terrifying in equal measure) and Morrigan often blithely referred to him as "the favourite" (which was definitely amusing, given the connotations of the word), which seemed to discomfit the Queen greatly. She wasn't very good at hiding her wary disapproval of Zevran's role, and it made it very unpleasant to be around her. Zevran could be charming enough if he wanted to, but there were limits to his tolerance for the Queen's manner.

On top of all of that, Zevran found himself  _pining_  for the Warden, of all the foolish things to do. While the rational part of him was well aware that the Warden's decision to venture into darkspawn territory with only a small party for stealth and speed was a strategically sound one, the part of him that had fallen in love would not stop missing the Warden, on top of his increasing worry for the Warden's safety. Zevran wasn't prepared at all for how much of his peace of mind depended on knowing the Warden was hale and whole. He had thought that his brief bout of insanity over the Warden's capture had been bad enough, and yet as the days went by with no news of the Warden's return, the burden of his growing anxiety was like a slowly tightening noose around his neck.

So when Wynne rather unexpectedly sought him out and asked him to accompany her to the marketplace for supplies, Zevran leapt at the chance to distract himself and to stretch his legs. It did not occur to him that Wynne had some ulterior motive for taking him out of the estate (and subsequently, far away from the curious eyes and ears of their little band of misfits) until she said, quite suddenly: "I believe I owe you an apology."

Zevran looked away from his glance towards Liselle's stall where he'd been contemplating the fragrant stock to replace the stolen bottle of massage oil he and the Warden had grown so fond of. Zevran was contemplating buying another vial to replace it. He gave Wynne a raised eyebrow. He and Wynne tended to keep their conversations fairly civil these days, if rather shallow, and their exchange of words during this shopping trip had been nothing more than the usual banter of mild innuendo and barbed replies. This, however, sounded far more serious. "I'm not sure if I follow."

Wynne didn't say anything for a while, her gaze fixed at some point far ahead of her. She was silent for so long, in fact, that Zevran was about to dismiss her sudden words when she said, "At some point in the past, I expressed my distrust of your intentions towards the Warden, and I implied that I do not believe you to be sincere." She made a moue of discomfort. "I now understand that your affection for the Warden is genuine, and I have been unfairly hostile towards you. For that, I am sorry."

 _Ah._  Zevran stared at the ground, feeling far less comfortable with the direction this conversation had turned to. "I...see your meaning," he said, looking at Wynne from the corners of his eyes. "I'll accept your apology, although there was no need for it. If I were in your place, knowing myself, I would likely have done the same."

She inclined her head in acknowledgement. "Perhaps so." She gave him a sideways glance. "That said, I cannot help but notice the strange tension between you two, just when the Warden was leaving Denerim."

"Did you now?" Zevran drew the phrase out cautiously.

"Usually you two are so obviously attracted to one another, the only way you could make it even more obvious was to quite literally glue yourselves together at the hip," she said drily. "Yet at that morning, the two of you couldn't even look each other in the eye for longer than necessary, and both of you were careful to maintain a very literal distance between each other."

Zevran grimaced. Oh yes, it had been  _very_  awkward, since they had not properly resolved the fight they had the night before. The Warden had been skittish and still feeling hurt over Zevran's lack of reciprocation; Zevran had been wary of hurting the Warden even more yet at the same time still more than reluctant to properly  _deal_  with his feelings. "We had...a bit of a misunderstanding."

A moment of silence passed; Wynne's patient, Zevran's uneasy, before he let out a sigh and finally admitted, "The Warden confessed his love to me, the night before."

"Ah." There was a note of dawning comprehension in Wynne's soft exhale. "And you didn't tell him that you felt the same, didn't you?"

Zevran shrugged, not feeling brave enough to acknowledge the truth of her words directly, but also not denying it.

Wynne gave him a very disappointed look. "Is saying 'I love you, too' so difficult for you?"

"You make it seem so very simple."

"It is, usually." She frowned. "Although I suppose that, for you, it doesn't seem that way." She reached out and patted Zevran's shoulder. "I only say this: whatever you two have is a rare and wonderful thing, especially in these difficult times, and given the very real danger our lives are constantly in, I suggest you cherish what happiness you can find, while you still live and breathe."

Zevran couldn't quite suppress a snort of laughter at her words. The sound came out sounding a little hysterical. "You know, I think having that attitude is what put me in this mess in the first place."

She raised her eyebrows. "Pleasure and happiness isn't always the same thing," she said. "And as strange as it seems, the two of you are good for each other. I do not think the Warden would be the man he is now without your influence."

Zevran froze, forcing her to stop walking as well. He gave her a disbelieving stare. "What, exactly, did you mean by that?"

Wynne was silent for a moment, her expression telling him that she was chewing over the right words to say. "Do you remember your first few interactions with him? After he first spared you after your failure to assassinate him?" At Zevran's curt nod, she went on, "What was your initial impression of him?"

Zevran frowned, digging back up old memories. "Stern. Somewhat aloof. Charming enough on the surface when he wants to be, but..."

A sharp memory flashed, of Zevran's careless, mocking question:

_"Surely your life has not been so idyllic? People like you and I are not the product of happy lives of contentment, after all."_

_The Warden blinked, and… Zevran wasn't sure what happened. The Warden's face suddenly went blank, and even the sharp eyes lost their light. Something else swirled within them, though. Horror, grief, and something dark and terrifying that it took a stunned moment before Zevran could name it..._

"...Rage," Zevran murmured. "Full of rage."

Wynne nodded. "Exactly. I do not have the full details of what  _exactly_  happened him before he joined the Grey Wardens, but when I first saw him in Ostagar, he was frighteningly quiet, as if he was suppressing some strong emotion. It wasn't until I met him again at the Circle, and then travelled with him, that I realised he was driven by a need for vengeance, to the point where it was starting to be the  _only_  thing he was allowing himself to feel. Left alone, he would have become a terrifying, dangerous man, unfettered by softer feelings like compassion and love, headed down a self-destructive path that would have left devastation in his wake."

Zevran thought about what she said, and shuddered. It wasn't so difficult to imagine, really. There was a vaguely unhinged air about the Warden in those days, which had drawn and repulsed Zevran in equal measure. More of the former than the latter, but still.

Wynne gave him a knowing look, but she went on, "When you became part of us, and started flirting with the Warden, I believe he was forced to acknowledge his growing attraction to you, and subsequently he had to learn how to cope with the rest of his emotions." She smiled. "Do you know, the Warden only truly talks to you, in a way that he rarely does with most of us? Oh, I know that he makes sure to chat with us every now and then," she said, when Zevran opened his mouth to protest. "But I do not think you understand how you two seem to communicate without words, both in combat and out of it. And that, Zevran, is not something you can do without a wholehearted trust in each other, and a deep understanding of what one another's thoughts. Even Alistair, who knows the Warden longer than any of us, cannot do the same thing that you do with the Warden.

"You know him best, and as a result, you keep him grounded. It's not just because of your direct influence that he tries to be a better man for you, he does so because he is afraid of disappointing you, and therefore losing you. And I think that you feel the same as well, although you appear to be doing your best to pretend otherwise." The old woman gave him an inscrutable expression, as if daring him to deny her assessment.

Zevran swallowed heavily, and looked at his feet as they continued their methodical way towards the estate. Again he felt the dark shadows of his lingering fear over being so deeply bound to the Warden. He fought the urge to snap at Wynne. It was unfair to her, when she was more than perceptive and intelligent enough to pick up his thoughts so easily, and nothing she said had been outright wrong, so far.

 _I'm tired_ , he abruptly realised.  _Tired of running, tired of avoiding something that could possibly give me a little bit of joy, because it_ _does_ _not fit my idea of being a good Crow. But I am a Crow no longer, with no masters to answer to._  He looked at his hands, clad in a now familiar pair of embroidered fur-lined gloves, and remembered with crystalline clarity the moment that the Warden had made a gift of them, simply because Zevran missed the gloves that his mother had. Not the first gift that the Warden had given him, exactly, and far from being one of the most expensive or rare ones, but they were still one of his most cherished possessions.

Perhaps he had started to love the Warden a little since that day. The fool man was willing to listen to his unremarkable stories and cared enough to try and cheer him up with such a simply selfless gesture.

Perhaps, for the first time in his life, Zevran would fight to keep what was truly his to own, for once.

He exhaled noisily, and schooled his expression into one of bored annoyance. "Oh, very well, I shall apologise to the Warden, as you have not so subtly been urging me to do," he drawled. "But only if you will drop the subject, and allow me to rest my head upon your magical bosom so that I might best compose my sincere and heartfelt remorse."

Wynne chuckled at the reminder of one of his previous attempts at evasion, but she obliged, filling the air with meaningless small talk until they reached the estate. Zevran didn't actually get to rest his head on her bosom, but supposed he should be thankful for small mercies. Except, of course, because of some bizarre stroke of timing, the moment he finished helping Wynne put away her things, he heard a loud commotion from the front of the mansion, with the all-too-familiar barks of an excited mabari.

The sudden, unexpectedly dizzying conflict of elation and trepidation must have made quite an expression on his face, because Wynne laughed at him and patted his arm. "Have some courage. Best get it over and done with, Zevran," she said gently, but not without a twinkle of amusement in her eye. "I do think of you as a friend, but if you keep this up I shall be forced to tie the two of you together and put you both in a locked room."

Zevran stared at her, wondering if she even realised how  _delightfully obscene_  her idea was, and grinned broadly at her. "My dear Wynne, if you wanted to participate with us in our bedroom activities, you only had to ask," he said with his best leer, and laughed as he ducked to avoid her attempt to smack him upside the head and escaped the room.

But what little good humour Zevran gained from teasing Wynne vanished the moment he stepped into the entrance hall and saw the Warden. The Wolf looked remarkably hale and whole as he removed his helmet and joked about needing a long, hot bath to a laughing Leliana. Zevran used to dismiss the old adage of absence making the heart grow fonder as some sentimental tripe conjured by lonely and horny poets, but when the Warden spotted him and smiled with unabashed delight—as well as, now that Zevran actually thought to look for it, the kind of adoration that could only belong to a besotted man—Zevran could not help but be conscious of the way his heart leapt to his throat, and the urge to run across the hall and kiss the Warden senseless was almost overwhelming.

_Maker's breath, Wynne was right. We really are a pair of love-struck fools._

Zevran prided himself on being able to resist temptation when he decided to, even if he more often than not decided the opposite, so he put a smirk on his face and affected cocky nonchalance as he approached the Warden. "Ah, I see someone found himself a new suit of armour. Very flashy. I'm surprised you haven't been mobbed on the streets while wearing it." He looked pointedly at the gold griffin crest emblazoned on the breastplate. "Are you really so keen to paint an even bigger target on your own back, my dear Warden?"

"I  _told_  him it was too obvious," Alistair grumbled. "But noooo, he  _had_  to wear it the moment he could pry it off the owner's corpse."

 _Corpse?_  Zevran raised an eyebrow at the Warden, who only grinned, looking completely unrepentant. "What can I say?" he said. "I simply couldn't resist such fine workmanship. And contrary to what Alistair made it sound like, I did get it cleaned and refitted to me before I put it on. I do have _standards_." Zevran choked back a laugh as the Warden raised his arms and twirled on the spot, showing off the admittedly impressive suit of plate. "Don't you think I look good in Warden blue?"

"You look rather dashing," Leliana said, giggling. "Very commanding."

Zevran rolled his eyes, doing his best to stifle the urge grab his Warden and kiss him, as well as other activities that would impress upon the other man just how adorable and  _frustrating_ he was being. "Yes, yes, very nice. But if you get yourself recaptured by Loghain, I am  _not_  going to come to your rescue again."

"Spoilsport," the Warden sighed. "Speaking of Loghain, how is his daughter the Queen faring?"

"Alive and well," Zevran said with a casual shrug. "I expect she'll be glad to see that you are too. She and the Arl were both worried over your absence."  _As was I_.

"I had better go reassure them in person then." Except the Warden made no move to go find the Queen, and instead stood staring at Zevran, looking…  _unsure?_

Abruptly, Zevran remembered the Warden's confession to him, and Zevran's subsequent refusal to talk about it, and now Zevran was acting with casual indifference to the Warden's return, which might have come off as he didn't really care about…  _Oh._

Guilt twisted sharp and painful in his chest. Of course, the Warden would have reason to doubt his feelings, when Zevran had been so adamant to ignore them for so long. Words hovered at the tip of his tongue, but he was far too aware of Alistair and Leliana's presence in the room, and what he wanted,  _needed_  to say was far too intimate to be expressed in front of an audience.

 _Ah_ , a quiet voice spoke in his head.  _But actions speak louder than words, do they not? And there is one thing that you've wanted to do since the beginning that wouldn't be too intimate for such a small, trusted audience, no?_

Zevran looked around, made certain that yes, there was no one else in the entrance hall beyond the four of them (and Anlan, who was busy sniffing out the corners of the hall as if reacquainting himself with the estate), and then, not allowing the opportunity to second-guess himself, closed the too-wide distance between himself and the Warden.

Until Zevran was close enough to reach out, grip the sides of the Warden's head, and pull him down to claim his mouth in a hard, hungry kiss.

The Warden froze, mouth slackening with shock under his, and Zevran took the chance to push his tongue in for the briefest of tastes, before he pulled back with a final lick to the Warden's lower lip. The Warden stared at him with a poleaxed expression when Zevran stepped back, a gauntleted hand flying up to touch his lips in belated reaction.

Zevran waited for a moment, but when the Warden continued to stare at him in mute shock, he rolled his eyes and smirked. "Surely this is a custom that even you Fereldens are familiar with, yes?" he said, waggling his eyebrows. "How else does one greet a lover after they have returned from a long journey?"

To Zevran's delight, the Warden turned a delightful shade of beet red, although he  _still_  failed to move a muscle or say a word in reply.

"Great," Alistair said with a pained expression. "You broke him. How am I supposed to take him to see Eamon like this?"

Zevran made a show of eyeing the Warden critically. "Oh, he'll recover," he said in his cheeriest tone. "The Warden is made of very stern stuff."

Leliana had been watching them with avid eyes, and at Zevran's remark she burst into another fit of giggles. "I think the Warden is simply not used to being welcomed back in such a passionate manner," she said, eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Something which should be confined to the bedroom, thank you very much," Alistair said, managing to sound chiding despite the pink that bloomed on his cheeks. "Bad enough that I have to deal with the  _sounds_  you two make, I do not need the visuals to go with it."

That seemed to shake the Warden out of his stupor; he blinked, and his expression shifted to one of mock hurt. "Why, Alistair, I didn't know you disapproved of our relationship," he said.

"That's not what I'm talking about and you bloody well know it," Alistair said hotly. "There's a time and place for your  _shenanigans_ and this isn't it. Can we go make our reports to Eamon now? Before you get distracted again?"

"Maker help me, I've created a monster," the Warden said, shaking his head. "Who knew you'd be such a  _taskmaster?_ "

"You said that I have to learn how to take more responsibility on my shoulders. This, here, is me, shouldering it." Alistair gripped the Warden's shoulders, spun him around, and started pushing him towards the direction of Eamon's study. "Leliana, Zevran, if you'll excuse us, we have some urgent business to attend to."

"Please try not to hold onto the Warden for too long," Zevran said. He waited a beat, and then added, "Actually, you can hold him as much as you like, but I want to be there to watch."

"In your dreams, Zevran," Alistair called back.

Zevran grinned, a cheeky reply already on the tip of his tongue, but then the Warden glanced over his shoulder, eyebrow raised in silent inquiry.

Zevran met his gaze and shook his head slightly.  _Later._

The Warden frowned and Zevran could see him briefly entertain the thought of staying back and demanding to know what was the intent of that kiss, before he mentally shrugged and allowed himself to be led away by Alistair's increasingly forceful pushing.

Zevran watched the Warden disappear around a corner, and would have continued staring after him, but he felt an arm twine companionably around his, and a light kiss on his cheek.

"I suppose I should extend my congratulations, since you discovered that you have a heart after all," Leliana said teasingly. "I would say, 'It's about time' as well, but I shall be merciful. For now."

"Funny. Very funny. I am moved by your clever wit." Zevran raised an eyebrow at the unapologetic, amused expression on her face. "Would it be too much to hope that perhaps you might not hold this over my head?"

Leliana pursed her lips and tapped a finger on her cheek, giving every impression of thinking about his suggestion very seriously. "Mmm, perhaps if you will make me your maid of honor at your wedding, I might consider it."

"Done," Zevran said cheerily. "But the Warden gets to wear the dress, not I."

As Leliana burst out laughing, Zevran very briefly wondered at the fact that the word "wedding", with its myriad implications of love and commitment, didn't quite cause the flood of panic it would have given him not so long ago.

_Ah, Zevran, how you have changed._

_But perhaps_ , he thought, smiling to himself,  _it was for the best_.

_~to be continued~_


	43. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Sia Later, as usual, who helped so much with this chapter.

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 42_

* * *

Whatever it was that Alistair had wished to report to Arl Eamon, it took quite a bit of time. By the time the Warden made his way into their shared bedroom, Zevran had just finished pouring the last of the heated water into the copper tub.

Zevran looked up when the door opened, and watched the Warden step in, then halt in the doorway, clearly taken aback not only by the tub, but the tray of fragrant bath oils, the platter of fruit and wine, the bed strewn with rose petals that ranged from creamy white to deepest red, and the truly ridiculous amount of scented candles strewn about the room.

In all fairness, he was only responsible for the food and the bath. When Leliana somehow discovered Zevran's plan to make amends with the Warden—word traveled quickly in their small company, especially when an elder mage was involved—she shoved her dainty, well-booted foot in the door and wouldn't take, "Get out," for an answer. She'd shoved open the door, her arms laden with candles, and servants trailed behind with bottles of oils and baskets of roses. A steady litany of excited chatter spouting rather detailed advice that he didn't need dripped from her pretty lips as she arranged her prizes to her liking. She even slapped his hand when he moved to right a candle that had tipped over.

He didn't really try very hard to stop her, not that she'd have responded to him if he'd done anything other than thrown her out bodily. He was too amused over her casual theft of the Queen's bath supplies. At least, that was what he hoped she had done to procure such expensive candles and so many out-of-season roses; going out to buy all of that in such a short time would had required emptying the Warden's stash of coin, and Zevran doubted that Leliana would be so witless as to cause the Warden apoplexy.

The incredulous expression on the Warden's face was worth allowing her to transform the bedroom into the hideous love-child of a bridal chamber and a boudoir, at least.

The Warden slammed the door shut, and gave Zevran a deeply suspicious glare. "What sort of mischief are you up to this time?"

 _My, someone's tetchy_. Zevran affected an injured expression as he laid a hand over his heart. "My dear Warden, I only seek to provide you with the comforts of civilised society, seeing that you have been camping out in the wilds for the past few weeks."

"As if we haven't spent the large part of the year on the road," the Warden said. "I don't see why you had to decorate this room as if you're welcoming a virgin bri—"

Zevran smirked when the Warden broke off, his face visibly conveying that he had just fully grasped the implications of the bedroom's appearance, before it shuttered into an inscrutable mask.

Zevran had expected it, but he still felt the pang of guilt and hurt when the Warden only stared at him, his face revealing none of his thoughts. Of course the Warden wouldn't immediately leap to forgive him; Zevran had done more than enough to make the man doubt the sincerity of his affection.

Sighing, he stepped towards the Warden and started working on the buckles of his armour. "Let's get all this metal off you, shall we? I expect that you're itching to wash away the dust of the road, hmm?"

The Warden said nothing in reply. Zevran took it as implied agreement, and set about removing the suit. He had often helped the Warden to get in and out of his armour, and figuring out the particular quirks of the new suit of plate only required a moment. Questions about the armour hovered on his tongue; the Warden had told him enough about the Order's tarnished history in Ferelden that Zevran knew something of this quality had to be very old indeed, and only powerful magic would had kept the armour from turning into a pile of rust and rotting leather. But now was not the time to ask such questions. Satisfying his curiosity would have to wait.

The Warden remained silent throughout the process, obediently moving when Zevran needed him to, but his expression remained wary, watchful. Zevran couldn't help smiling once he realised that he had inadvertently thrown the Warden completely off-balance, with the kiss from earlier and now this. He was aware that a large part of the Warden's inability to properly hide his bewilderment could be attributed to stress and exhaustion, but it was nice to be the more confident one in this partnership, for a change.

His smile widened when the Warden noticed it, and the suspicion ticked up a notch. It was probably cruel of him to take such delight in the Warden's moment of weakness, but Zevran wasn't the sort to let even minor advantages slide, and it was for their (hopefully) mutual benefit, anyway.

When Zevran had stripped the Warden to his trousers, and reached for the laces, the Warden twitched away, looking like a spooked animal. "I can handle that myself, thank you," he said stiffly.

Zevran raised his hands up and back away. "Very well then," he said, stifling the laugh that threatened to erupt when his agreeable tone made the Warden glare at him. "Strip and get in the tub. I'll help you bathe."

The Warden clenched his jaw, eyes flashing, a familiar sign that he was about to be stubborn, and Zevran felt a spark of annoyance in reaction. "Look, I don't know what your game is, but I can—"

 _Of all the times to be wilful, frustrating.._.

"Warden." The reprimand came out harsher than he intended, if the startled expression on the Warden's face was anything to go by, and Zevran forced himself to take a deep breath, and exhale it slowly. "In case it has escaped your notice, you have been wandering around in the darkspawn-infested countryside for two weeks, while I was stuck here with no way of knowing if you were safe, or you were able to make it back alive at all. While I am very well aware that you are here and appear to be in possession of all your limbs, I am still not pleased with the fact that I was not allowed to be at your side during your reckless little mission, you stupid fool! So right now, you will remove the rest of your clothes, get into that bathtub, and let me take care of you!"

The last few words rang far too loudly in Zevran's ears, and he gritted his teeth, feeling his ears grow hot, although he wasn't sure if it was from anger, or embarrassment. Judging from the messy riot of feelings churning in his gut, it was likely both.

 _Maker's breath!_  He had not meant to be that open to the Warden, but it was as if a dam had burst when he opened his mouth and started talking. All of his resentment and worry and frustration and fear over the Warden's capture, feelings that Zevran had not quite allowed himself to properly handle, much less acknowledge, rushed out in an overwhelming torrent. He was tempted to gather the tattered remains of his dignity and walk right out of the room.

If this was what sentiment did to normal people, no wonder the Crows were so keen to smother it out of their recruits. He could very well imagine just how compromised an assassin could become if they had any attachments to anything outside the Guild, coin, their own hides.

On the other hand, it could be that other people dealt with feelings often enough that it became a habit, and Zevran was just too ill-equipped to deal with them. Growing pains.  _Hah._

The Warden was staring at him with shock and something that looked very close to alarm, which only made him look vulnerable, and somehow even more appealing in a wide-eyed puppyish way, which threatened to push Zevran's anger over the edge into another violent outburst—how dare that man look he needed to be held when something much rougher was in order! Zevran snarled and gathered up as much of the armour pieces as he could hold, pointedly not looking at the Warden when he walked off to put them away.

He continued to feel the weight of the Warden's stare as he focused on stacking the armor in a less messy pile, slowly coaxing his temper into a less volatile state. Eventually he heard the sound of clothes hitting the floor, smelt the pungent scents of bath oils before the soft splash of the Warden slipping into the water.

Then and only then did Zevran turn around, his temper reduced to a simmer beneath his skin. The taller man had stretched out in the tub, and although it was big enough to let him recline comfortably, there was still a significant amount of heavy-boned knees poking out of the water. Zevran snorted at the absurd sight as he went to kneel beside the tub, grabbing a wash-cloth as he did.

"It is a very good thing that the Arl is rich enough to have a tub this big," he said, waving at the Warden's bare knees. "I cannot imagine how you cope with the buckets that we peasants consider a luxury."

"Very uncomfortably," came the prompt and blithe reply, although the Warden's expression was still tense and wary, his eyes still too much like a kicked puppy's. "Mother considered long hot baths a waste of water and time, and she discouraged us from developing that kind of habit. The only sort of bathing in Highever was always quickly efficient and with water cold enough to freeze your balls off."

Zevran raised his brows and looked down pointedly at the Warden's groin, only barely obscured by the slightly foggy water. "It appears that you survived with your parts intact, and I personally know that they are in working order, so forgive me if I fail to see the truth of your claim."

The Warden's lips twitched, a hint of reluctant amusement lighting his eyes up and easing the wide-eyed puppy look, as he marginally relaxed, and Zevran felt some of his own tension uncoil. Good. Zevran felt a little foolish for thinking it, but he wanted to show the Warden how he felt, rather than say it in words.

The Warden gave Zevran a quizzical look when he reached into the bath and picked up the Warden's leg by the ankle. But when Zevran slid the wash-cloth in his other hand up over the sole of his foot, pressing in with his thumb as he did so, the Warden's eyes slid closed and he tilted his head back, an appreciative groan slipping past his lips.

Zevran smirked as he proceeded to worship the Warden's foot and leg very thoroughly, under the pretence of washing. The Warden had truly magnificent legs, long and corded with powerful muscle, and Zevran luxuriated in the feel of the limb under his palms, hand curving around the heavy-boned ankle, cupping the firm curves of a muscular calf, tips of his fingers sliding up to brush against the soft vulnerable skin behind the knee, before setting that leg down very gently, and continuing the same treatment on its twin.

Judging from sounds coming from the Warden's mouth, and the slowly thickening cock beneath the water, his lover was enjoying the attention very well indeed.

Feeling mischievous, Zevran decided to up the ante, as it were.

The first touch of his tongue against the Warden's foot made the other man's eyes snap open, going round with shock. Zevran met the Warden's startled gaze, and held it as he slowly dragged his tongue up the rough sole, from the heel to the ball of the foot.

The Warden's jaw dropped, a blush staining his cheeks with red, and he gaped when Zevran, seeing no real objection in the Warden's expression, flicked his tongue between the Warden's toes, and dragged his lips over the pads, making the Warden shudder, hands gripping the edges of the tub as if he needed something solid to hold on to. "Zevran, what—?"

"Problem?" Zevran breathed against the Warden's foot, and was pleased to note that the Warden shivered again and gasped even from something as subtle as breath over skin. Clearly, the Warden was very sensitive to foot stimulation, and Zevran made a mental note to explore that option with proper enthusiasm in the future.

The Warden laughed breathlessly. "Oh, no, I have no problem with what you're doing"—he made a choked-off keen when Zevran closed his mouth over the Warden's big toe and sucked—"stop that, just…come up here, please?"

Zevran mentally groaned, pulling his mouth off with a wet pop and giving the Warden an irritated look. "I must be losing my touch, if you're coherent enough to tell me to stop," he complained as he shuffled over to the Warden's side. "We could be doing something much more pleasurable than talk—"

"Zevran, don't."

Zevran blinked. The Warden had sounded exasperated, but his expression was pained, almost hurt. "Is something wrong?"

The Warden stared at him, long enough that Zevran had to actively resist the urge to fidget and look away, before he let out a sigh and shook his head. "You really have no idea, don't you?" A hand reached out and cupped Zevran's cheek before he could think to move away, callused thumb brushing lightly over his cheekbone. "You seem different now."

Zevran narrowed his eyes, wondering what was it about himself or his behaviour that seemed 'different' to the Warden, before he sighed, turning his head and pressing a kiss to the Warden's wrist. "Are you certain you wish to talk about this? I really do not know what to say."

The Warden didn't reply for a long time, his expression painfully insecure in a way that Zevran was not used to seeing, and before Zevran could comment on it—anything to break the awkward silence between them—the expression hardened into weary resolve.

"Are you—" The Warden blinked rapidly, swallowed as if something was stuck his throat. "Are you having second thoughts about us?"

Zevran took one look at the Warden's face, saw the aching vulnerability in his wide beseeching eyes, so different from the stoic demeanour he usually adopted around others, and was abruptly reminded that this man—this brilliant, marvellous, devastatingly handsome man—could have easily chosen someone else who was his equal in spirit and in status, and yet the Warden had instead willingly placed his heart in Zevran's hands.

Metaphorically speaking, of course.

"I…" Zevran started, and stopped, unsure how to proceed. "…no. This…"

_Damn it._

This was why Zevran just wanted to skip to the welcome-back sex. He had thought that showing how he felt through actions would be enough, but clearly, the Warden thought differently. But how was he supposed to properly convey in words that he didn't feel that he deserved to be loved in such a way, and yet his greedy soul had quaked in its boots at the very thought of the Warden leaving him?

Evidently, he took too long to formulate an answer, because the Warden's eyes turned bleak, face locking into a blank mask, and he started to pull his hand away.

 _No._  Zevran closed his hand around the Warden's wrist—too tightly, if the Warden's flinch was any indication, but Zevran needed…something, anything, to keep him grounded before he stumbled his way through what would most likely be the most inelegant confession of feelings in the history of anything, and the Warden's warm hand against his cheek did a lot to calm his nerves. There was a hysterical bubble of laughter threatening to burst out of his throat, which Zevran ruthlessly suppressed. What a poor, pathetic creature he was! The Crows had done such a fine job of training him to be afraid of ever wanting anything, that he could not even properly voice out what his own heart needed. But to avoid this confrontation would mean losing the Warden, and Zevran couldn't risk that. He'd lost so much to the Crows' machinations, but he could not afford to lose this, not after he'd managed to free himself from their shadow.

 _You are a free man now, Zevran. Best start acting like one._  He drew breath, and spoke quickly, before his nerves got the better of him. "I am acting like a child, I realise. I apologise. Let me try to explain." He glanced up at the Warden, forcing himself to meet the confused stare, the puppy creeping back into the other man's eyes. So much of him wanted to duck down and look away, but Zevran needed the Warden to see what he felt, and why. "An assassin…must learn to forget about sentiment. It is dangerous. You take your pleasures where you can, when life is good. To expect anything more would be reckless."

Zevran kissed the Warden's wrist again, partly because it was there, but mostly to reassure himself that the Warden was there, and continued: "I thought it was the same between us. Something to enjoy, a pleasant diversion and little more. And yet…"

The Warden's face had steadily softened while Zevran spoke, and when Zevran trailed off, the Warden was gazing at him with something like wonder and growing hope. "Are you saying you are in love with me?"

Zevran sighed. "I don't know. How would you know such a thing?" Reaching up, he traced the Warden's cheek. "Yet I cannot help it. Since you asked me into your tent, I have been nothing but confused. Do you understand at all?"

The Warden blinked, his expression growing rueful, one shoulder rising in a half-shrug. "I am no wiser than you in that area, Zevran."

Zevran narrowed his eyes at the phrasing, briefly debating if he should take insult, before shaking his head. It didn't matter. "All I need to know is if there might be some future for us, some possibility of..." He grimaced.  _A relationship? A partnership?_  "I do not know what."

The Warden was silent for so long that Zevran started to feel incipient panic creeping in. Did he ruin it too much, to the point where there was no hope of saving this precious thing between them?

"I don't know," the Warden said, which...Zevran should have expected really, this wasn't going to work, was it? Then he saw the growing wetness in the Warden's eyes, and a shaky smile curving his lips, and knew that finally,  _finally_ , he was doing something right. "But I know how I feel about you."

Zevran swallowed, and glanced away, feeling heat bloom over his cheeks and ears, while his heart seemed to trip over itself, given the way it beat so frantically in his ribcage. Andraste's flaming tits, the way the Warden was looking at him, you'd think that Zevran had given him the key to the Maker's Golden City, or something. It was ridiculous and embarrassing.

"I..." Zevran paused, startled by how rough his voice sounded, and coughed a little to clear the odd tightness in his throat. "I...still have the earring. I would like to give it to you...as a token of affection. Will you take it?"

The Warden's eyes were truly tear-filled now, but they hadn't overflowed, and the smile broadened into that wolfish grin Zevran didn't realise he had missed. "That sounds like a proposal."

There was a teasing note in the Warden's tone, likely meant to lighten the mood. To give a chance for Zevran to make a quip. But that would be too easy, wouldn't it?

Zevran raised his head, looked steadily into the Warden's eyes, and dropped every shield he possessed, every protective veil and wall he had built to hide behind, and let all the messy things that he felt show in his own eyes.

Let the Warden truly see the depth of his love. "Not unless you wish it," he said, with utter seriousness.

The Warden's grin softened, gentled, although it remained no less wide. The hand that Zevran had kept pressed against his face twisted, caught his wrist instead. Keeping his eyes locked with Zevran's, the Warden pulled Zevran's hand towards him, and pressed his lips to it.

Right over the ring finger, where a ring would be.

"I'll take it," the Warden said, breathing it softly against Zevran's skin. Zevran inhaled sharply as he looked into the Warden's eyes, bright and joyful and shimmering with a love that Zevran had never thought to find, and then he laughed, rueful.  _I suppose that the Warden would get what he wants, in the end, hm? It is a good thing that I want it too._

"Then that is enough for me." He leaned in, bringing their lips together for a brief, chaste kiss. "I am sorry for acting so strangely," he murmured. "I think I will be better now. Much better."

He felt the Warden snicker against his mouth. "Oh, good. I was starting to think that I needed to have a tattoo of your name and, 'I love you,' written on my forehead, given how painfully oblivious you've been."

Zevran snorted at the mental image, even as his imagination brought up several interesting possibilities about tattoos on his Warden. "Well, I wouldn't abandon that idea just yet," he purred. "Perhaps I should design my own personal seal, and have it inked on your bottom, since it's my property now."

It was the Warden's turn to inhale sharply at that, although Zevran knew it was for a significantly more carnal reason, given how the pupils of his eyes widened at that. "Possessive, much?"

"Maybe." Speaking of which...Zevran reached down into the water, briefly cupping the Warden's balls—savouring the breathless moan against his mouth—and then letting his fingers drift further.

Felt the Warden shudder as he lightly pressed a fingertip against puckered skin.

"If I recall correctly, you once said that after you've caught up with what you missed during your little detour to Fort Drakon, I'm free to touch you wherever I want, however I want."

"I did," the Warden said, and his breath hitched in the most delicious way when Zevran increased the pressure just so, the very tip of his finger sinking in.

"Is that offer still on the table?" Zevran asked.

The Warden's eyes flashed with a hint of temper. "I'm hardly going to back out of something like that," he snapped. "Stop teasing and take me to bed already."

Zevran couldn't repress a laugh at that. Of course. He really should not had expected any less than boldness from  _his_  Warden. "As you wish."

He stepped back, reached for a towel as the Warden stepped out of the tub, and held it out for the Warden to take.

It was a strangely domestic thing to do, watching his Warden mop away the water from his skin, yet Zevran couldn't help but feel the thrill of anticipation, fingers itching to run over familiar contours, mouth watering with the urge to kiss and lick over still-damp skin.

"I do wish you'd stop ogling," the Warden muttered as he bent down to dry his legs.

"Hm?" Zevran grinned. "My dear, it's hardly anything I haven't seen before."

The Warden let out a huff of laughter. "It's a little bit embarrassing, is all. Not to mention uncomfortable."

" _Please_. You like it when you're being watched, shameless as you are."

"Hm." The Warden grinned and dropped the towel, then strode over to Zevran, completely unselfconscious about his nakedness. "Possibly. I'd rather have you touch me, though."

Zevran didn't bother with a "See? I told you so," and instead reached up, hand curling through the Warden's hair, and pulled him down to a kiss.

The Warden's mouth instantly opened, and Zevran took the offered feast, tongue diving in and tasting.

He'd missed the Warden, but he'd also missed  _this._  The passion and the desire that flared up between them like fire on dry kindling, and Zevran welcomed its comfortable, familiar heat.

But there was something else here, a darker, more greedy kind of lust, and he knew, feeling the Warden shudder as he ran his other hand covetously over a broad back before sliding down to knead and squeeze a firmly muscled globe, that his lover could sense the reason for it.

Maybe Zevran was a very bad man for wanting to possess the other man so thoroughly and completely, but he was never really the sort to think very hard about his own morality.

Without breaking the kiss, the rogue guided the warrior back towards the bed, and when the Warden's knees hit the end of the piece of furniture, he broke the kiss and pushed him down onto the petal-strewn coverlet.

The Warden bounced once, sending the petals flying, and he laughed, bright and joyous, making warmth unfurl in Zevran's heart

"All right, I have to ask, was this actually your idea?" the Warden asked, slightly breathless as he lay as he'd fallen, on one hip and half over on his stomach. "It's quite a lovely display, but rather out of character for you."

Zevran smirked as he lifted up his tunic, and fluttered his lashes mockingly once it was off past his head. "What? Maybe I just want to act out a few romantic fantasies."

" _Zevran._ "

"Fine, fine, it was Leliana's idea, but don't tell her I said that." Pulling off his boots and trousers, Zevran stepped closer to the bed, his eyes travelling up the long legs, over the cut of muscle on the Warden's hips, past the ridges of a hard abdomen, the wide expense of a muscled chest, before letting his gaze rest on the Warden's laughing, teasing eyes.

 _Beautiful_. He reached out, running his palm up the back of the Warden's leg, curving his hand about the round bottom at the very top of it as he set one knee on the bed.

"If this makes you uncomfortable in any way, you can tell me to stop."

The Warden raised a brow, and smiled, eyelids falling to half-mast, no trace of the former wide-eyed pup look remaining—the wolf had returned. "You know I won't."

Zevran blinked, and shivered, forcing down the urge to just pounceand rut like an animal. The utter  _trust_  in the Warden's tone, combined with the low throaty growl that arousal had turned that voice into, made for a  _very_  potent aphrodisiac. Zevran thought he might actually be feeling dizzy from the sheer lust.

No. If he were to do this, he would be  _careful_  at the very least, and not spoil what was most likely the Warden's first experience to be on the receiving end of a man's cock.

He closed his hand on the Warden's hip and shifted the heavy body so that the Warden was on his stomach, and then climbed up to kneel on either side of the Warden's legs. He leaned down, close, breathed in the scent of the Warden's freshly-washed skin for a while, before he pressed his lips to the very base of the Warden's spine, just above the cleft of the Warden's bottom.

He heard the Warden sigh out a breath, and make a contented purring hum as Zevran slowly worked his way upward, planting open-mouthed kisses along the length of the Warden's back, tasting and licking at the beads of sweat and water along the way. The Warden's head turned sideways once Zevran had reached his nape, and Zevran smiled, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of the Warden's mouth.

"You know, I remember having you lying beneath me like this," Zevran murmured, running his hands slowly up the sculpted planes of the Warden's back. "Just before the first time we made love."

The Warden grinned, eyes drifting closed. "Mm, yes, you were showing your Antivan whorehouse massage techniques."

"That I was. But you, my dear, interrupted me before I could get to the best part."

"Did I now." The Warden's eyes opened slightly, and his gaze was wicked. "Would it be too much if I ask you to continue that massage right now?"

"Greedy! But I shall be indulgent, since you asked so nicely." Zevran lightly slapped the Warden's bottom, making the larger man yelp and stare at him wide-eyed, a flush blooming on his cheeks. "Stay still."

The Warden swallowed, eyes widening further still, and he nodded.

Stowing away that  _very interesting_  reaction for later, Zevran got up from the bed and went to hunt for a certain vial he had hidden amongst the bath oils.

The Warden was still lying down exactly the way he had been when Zevran told him to not move, which made Zevran's heart thump harder, blood rushing down to his already stiff cock. "You're being remarkably obedient," he said with a laugh. "I wouldn't have expected it of you, given how stubborn you tend to be."

The Warden shrugged, looking remarkably nonchalant even as he spread his thighs to make room when Zevran lightly tapped his legs. "I can be good, if there's a suitable incentive for it."

"I'll keep that in mind," Zevran purred, taking a moment to appreciate the sight before him, of his Warden's legs spread willingly, baring his hole to Zevran's stare, his heavy balls pressed to the bed.

The Warden squirmed slightly as Zevran simply remained kneeling between the Warden's legs, just  _looking_ , and Zevran watched with a great deal of fascination as the flush on the Warden's face started spreading down to his neck and shoulders. "Are you just going to stare the whole day, or are you going to make yourself more useful?" the Warden eventually snapped, his expression mortified, and Zevran laughed.

"I'm very sorry," Zevran replied, his tone completely insincere. "But I wish there's a way to capture this in a painting. You are making quite a  _delectable_ vision right now." He leaned down, sinking his teeth into the meat of the Warden's arse and biting  _hard_ , ripping a moan out of the Warden's throat. Smirking against the Warden's skin, Zevran opened the vial.

The first touch of his oil-slicked finger against puckered skin made the Warden twitch, and Zevran paused there, simply rubbing the oil in with slow, firm circles. He could hear the Warden let out a sighing breath and forcibly relax, going nearly boneless, and only then did Zevran press harder, sinking his finger in.

The feeling of the Warden's body around his finger made Zevran let out a soft groan, his mind already imagining the tight, hot,  _sucking_  pressure of it around his cock. "This all right?" Zevran asked, as he slowly worked his finger back and forth.

"It's a bit strange," the Warden said, his voice sounding a bit choked. "But good. Keep going."

Trusting that the Warden would know his own body the best, Zevran pulled his finger out, and then started working both fingers in.

The Warden grunted, and then, amazingly, he arched his hips back, making Zevran's fingers sink in nice and easy, with almost no resistance. Zevran raised his brows and gave the Warden—or rather, his back—a suspicious look. "My dear, have you been practicing?"

"No," the Warden replied, and there was a wonderfully breathless quality to his voice that made Zevran shiver. "Done this to you often enough, haven't I? I have  _eyes_ , Zevran, it's not hard to watch what you do."

"Hmm." Zevran studied where his fingers slipped in and out of the Warden's body, the way that the Warden's hips twitched back each time he drew his fingers back, the way that the Warden's hole shined with oil as the ring of muscles stretched around his fingers.

_Delectable indeed._

The Warden made a hitching gasp when Zevran leaned down and  _licked_ , right over the sensitive, twitching part of him, tip of his tongue working around his fingers. When Zevran spread his fingers apart and pushed his tongue in between, tugging at the rim, the Warden  _shouted_ , his hips moving away from Zevran's mouth, then back again as if he couldn't make up his mind. But then a hand suddenly grasped the back of Zevran's head, fingers twisting almost painfully in his hair, and  _pulled him in_ , closer to the Warden's body.

Zevran grinned, and obeyed that silent command, mouth locking over the Warden's flesh and licking again and again, listening as a litany of bitten-off curses and groans spilled from his Warden's mouth, savouring the heavy and enticing scent of the Warden's growing arousal and how the Warden bucked beneath him as he assaulted the Warden with both mouth and fingers, until the Warden's hole was loose and pliant and glistening wet.

"Zevran," the Warden panted. " _Zevran,_  stop, it's too much, I don't want to come like this."

Zevran lifted his mouth away, pulling his fingers out and feeling a surge of dark possessiveness when the Warden let out a whining keen at that. Zevran's mouth tingled and ached like it had been over-kissed, and he knew his chin and the back of his hand was wet with spit. "Really now?" he asked, voice hoarse. "How do you want to come then?"

The Warden made an irritated sound, and then rolled over onto his back.

Zevran wasn't prepared to see the Warden's face, flushed with arousal, eyes wide and dark and  _desperate_ , mouth open around panting breaths with a thin line of saliva trailing out of the side, as if he had not even managed to catch enough breath to swallow.

His Warden, his  _Wolf,_  looked  _wrecked_.

But even then, there was a fierce hunger that made his eyes glitter, just the hint of a smile tugging the corners of his lips up as he shamelessly grabbed the back of his knees and lifted his legs up and open, exposing himself entirely to Zevran's stare.

Zevran felt a bit dizzy; it was like all the blood abruptly rushed out of his head and into his throbbing cock, and he was once again amazed at how  _bold_  his Warden was.

"Go on then," the Warden said, his voice cheeky and light, even if it was still raspy from his shortened breaths. "Take me the way you want, I'm all yours."

_Maker's breath._

Zevran groaned and crawled over the Warden's body, slotting himself between the cradle of those lovely muscular thighs. "You are ridiculous," he said, pressing kisses to the Warden's chest. "That was a  _terrible_  line."

"No worse than your usual lines," the Warden murmured, legs locking about Zevran, arms winding around his shoulders. "As I recall, you did try to seduce me with Antivan sex poetry. It was a good thing you have such a handsome face, or I would have been turned off forever."

Zevran raised an eyebrow as he settled the tip of his cock against the Warden. "Warden?"

"Hm?"

"You talk too much," he said, and flexed his hips.

Slowly, inexorably, he pushed into the tightness and heat of the other man's body.

The Warden arched, mouth falling open on a cry. His hands clutched and gripped, nails sinking into Zevran's skin hard enough that he knew there would be bruises later, but the sharp points of pain helped keep the sudden urge to orgasm at bay. Panting, he pressed his forehead to the Warden's chest and closed his eyes, forcing himself to stay still and not just sate himself in the Warden's body.

It's been a long, long time since he had penetrated someone, and he'd almost forgotten the wicked pleasure of sinking his cock into tight, wet heat.

He dragged in a shuddering breath, raised his head so he can look properly at the Warden. "All right?"

"Yeah," the Warden replied, just a soft breath of a word. His eyes and mouth were both half-open, glinting wet and heated and  _gorgeous_ , and Zevran saw the Warden's tongue flick out to lick across his lips, as if it were too dry. If he felt any discomfort he wasn't showing it, and his cock was still hard, leaking enough to form a little pool of fluid on his belly. "More than."

Zevran smiled, feeling wicked. "Good." He shifted, straightened slightly so that he could shift the Warden's legs up over his shoulders. He pulled back, until his cock was almost out of the Warden's body, then thrust back in with one forceful, carefully calculated, stroke.

And was rewarded by the Warden's eyes widening, mouth opening around a cry of sensual shock as Zevran grazed right up against that bundle of pleasure within his body. Smile widening into a grin, Zevran gripped the Warden's hips, and started riding.

The Warden turned into a wild, frenzied, desperate thing of beauty beneath him, powerful body undulating, hands clawing at the sheets, skin glistening with a sheen of sweat that highlighted every roll of muscle as the Warden strained up to match Zevran's rhythm. But it was the Warden's face that captivated Zevran the most, flushed and tight with desire, eyes squeezed shut as if the sensations were too overwhelming for him. The sounds falling out of the Warden's mouth were nothing but a string of breathless cries and moans that sounded like Zevran's name.

He was  _beautiful._

 _You're mine,_  Zevran thought with a sense of wonder as he turned his head and mouthed at the Warden's shin, tongue and teeth dragging over sweat-slick skin.  _Mine to keep, mine to hold, mine to love._

 _I love you_.

Zevran wanted to say the words, but they only hovered on the tip of his tongue, even as they swelled in his heart. Coward that he was, he still couldn't voice them out loud. So he could only express it with his mouth and hands and body as he ravished the Warden in a way that he had thought would only happen in dreams.

The Warden's cries took on a sharp desperate edge, and Zevran thrust harder, faster, his grip on the reins of his control slipping. "Come for me,  _mi amore_ ," he panted out. " _Come._ "

The Warden gasped, and his body arched up in a bow as he came untouched, cock spurting out between them, muscles convulsing around Zevran's cock, pulling Zevran suddenly and abruptly into an orgasm that felt like it was dragged out of his spine as he spilled into the Warden's body.

When Zevran came to, they were sprawled together on hopelessly messy sheets, both of them still catching their breaths. He felt  _drained_ , and yet at the same time deeply sated, a hazy bliss rolling through him and seeping into his bones.

He managed to slip off and out of the Warden at some point, so he was lying half on the Warden and half on the bed, his face pressed into a sweat-sticky shoulder. He could feel warm breaths puffing over the top of his head, a hand curved over the nape of his neck and idly toying with his hair.

He raised his head to peer up at the Warden, who was watching him through half-lidded eyes.

Zevran smirked. "You know, I never quite heard you be  _that_ loud before. I think you woke the dead, with the sounds you were making"

The Warden glared at him, even as his face turned almost as red as the rose petal currently stuck to his left cheek. "Shut it, Zevran."

Zevran laughed at the peevish tone, reaching up to brush away the stray petal before he laid his head back down, his own eyes falling half-closed.

The room stank of sex and crushed roses, and they were both filthy in the best ways. Eventually they would have to drag themselves out of bed, clean up, and face the world and its responsibilities. There was the matter of the Landsmeet still, and a Blight to end, an Archdemon to slay.

 _But that can wait for now_ , he thought, reaching for the Warden's hand and bringing it to his mouth, touching his lips to fingers so he could see the Warden's eyes light up with a soft  _adoring_  glow. For now, he and the Warden simply lay there, sated and boneless, wrapped in each other's arms in the mess of petals and sheets.

_~to be continued~_


	44. Chapter 43

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to my beta, SiaLater.

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 43_

* * *

Lassitude settling into his limbs, Zevran lay slumped over the Warden, his head pillowed on the Warden's chest, and listened to the steady beating of the heart beneath his ear while he...floated, of sorts, not entirely alert and awake, but not sleeping either.

Sex with the Warden had always been an intense act, but what they had just now was something far different from what Zevran knew. And he had thought that he was experienced in the matter of sex.

Was that what making love, in every sense of the word, truly felt like? At once feeling a soul-deep connection to the one that he cherished the most, and at the same time feeling completely, utterly _freeing?_

How very strange and contradictory. And yet, unbearably exciting.

But speaking of connections...

Somewhat absentmindedly, Zevran traced circles over the Warden's chest, before eventually asking, "Can I ask you something, my dear Warden? It's about this whole situation, with Loghain and the crown."

The Warden laughed, a soft rumble that tickled over the top of his head. "Developing an interest in Ferelden politics? I didn't think you'd ask about such things." A broad hand came to rest on his head and lightly stroked through his hair, blunt nails scraping along his scalp. "Very well. What do you wish to know?"

"Is it true that you can marry Her Majesty, and become King yourself, if you wished?"

The hand in his hair stilled. Beneath his cheek, Zevran could feel the Warden tense up. He knew, without looking up, that a blank mask had settled over the Warden's face.

"...where did you hear about that?"

"Morrigan was the one who mentioned the possibility, actually." Zevran raised his head, met the Warden's wary stare, and smiled. "Oh, don't get me wrong, I'm not the sort to get jealous over this sort of thing. I know how things are, should it turn out that way. And frankly it would be quite an advantage for you, to be able to gain that sort of power over an entire kingdom."

"Maybe." The Warden sighed, sounding exasperated. "Yes, given my lineage, it's quite possible for me to marry into the royal line. I doubt that Anora would let me become King, however. A prince-consort, yes, but not a true co-ruler. Doubtless she would have realized that I'm likely to overshadow her in terms of political power, and I don't think she would go back to ruling from the background, not after the mess King Cailan has made of things."

Zevran raised his eyebrows at the hint of scorn that had crept into the Warden's tone when Cailan's name was mentioned. "You sound like you dislike him."

The Warden's expression twisted into a look of utter disdain, lip curled back from his teeth in a sneer. "The Couslands are loyal to the Crown, and that does not mean we have to actually like the person wearing it." His face softened, at once looking tired and sad, before he let out another sigh. "Royal blood or no, he was an idealistic fool, and a good number of the Bannorn knew it. Maker knows what sort of disaster he could have blindly stumbled into, if Anora had not been there to keep him in check. Still, even a royal consort would have a great deal of power here in Ferelden."

"Interesting." Zevran tilted his head, studying the frown on the Warden's face. "Would you consider marrying the Queen, then, even if she won't let you be a King?"

The Warden was silent for a long time, his eyes faraway, before he shook his head slowly. "No. As you say, it would be an advantage, if we're talking purely about amassing power. But that sort of responsibility is not something I believe I can wield responsibly or effectively." The corners of his mouth crooked up in a wry smile. "I've never been trained to handle the political landscape here. At least, not to the extent my brother was."

Zevran blinked, and peered at the Warden with narrowed eyes. "Oh? That seems somewhat short-sighted of your parents, given that they had two possible heirs."

The Warden chuckled. "That's because I'm an accident, of sorts. My brother was fifteen, well on his way to growing into a young man, when my mother became pregnant with me. He'd married and begotten a healthy child by the time I was old enough to start training with a sword, so my parents thought that it was better that they raised me as a fighter, a commander of armies instead of a Teryn." He grinned. "Which, given my rash nature at the time, was probably a smarter move."

"Ah, yes. That was when you earned your nickname, yes?"

"Mmm. Demon Wolf, the terror of Highever. Dramatic and rather unflattering, but I was an incorrigible troublemaker back then, and while we Fereldens do rather venerate dogs I was far from something as tamed as a proper mabari as it was possible, even if I was still fiercely loyal to my family. Thankfully my brother was raised right, and was far calmer by nature. My parents had their hands full trying to tame their wayward younger son." He frowned, and shook his head. "But I digress. Point is, I'm not entirely suited to rule Ferelden, even with Anora's help. It'll bore me to tears."

"Hmm. I'm not sure if your thoughts in this matter are the right ones, but I stand by your decision." Zevran smirked. "I must say that I feel a little relieved, selfish as it sounds. I'd rather keep you _entirely_ to myself."

"Of course you would," the Warden murmured, and smiled lazily, his eyes going half-lidded. "Thankfully, we both want the same thing."

Zevran shivered at the low, rumbling purr of the Warden's voice, and half-heartedly slapped the Warden's chest. "Don't distract me, I'm not quite done yet."

The Warden sighed, but schooled his expression into a more somber one. "You're being strangely curious, today."

"Yes, well, some of us had been left behind here in Denerim, and can't help but notice that there had been a steady stream of nobles coming to the city for the past two weeks," Zevran replied tartly. "This Landsmeet thing, it'll happen soon, yes? And you'll be the one making the decision of who becomes the future ruler of Ferelden. Ah, don't argue," he said, pressing a finger over the Warden's lips, just as the Warden scowled and opened his mouth, clearly ready to argue. "You and I both know that ultimately, you're the one who will decide. Not the nobility, not the Arl, not the Queen, and certainly not Alistair. If Ferelden is to survive the Blight the decision has to be made quickly, and you're in the best position to do so while causing the least offense."

The Warden raised an eyebrow, even as he lightly pushed away Zevran's hand. "That's observant of you, but how did you come by that conclusion?"

Zevran rolled his eyes. "All power struggles ultimately work the same way, and really this is not so different from certain times when a Crow Master has been... _abruptly_ removed, shall we say, and needed to be replaced. If there's a dispute over who gets to take over, the Crows often elect a neutral Master or three to step in and mediate before there's any more bloodshed. Killing off a Crow that had the training and wits to take over as a Master would be such a waste of talent and skill, after all."

"True."

"So...what would your decision be? Alistair, or Anora?"

"I was thinking of marrying them both and making them co-rulers, actually."

Zevran stared, not sure that he had heard correctly, but eventually it sunk in that yes, the Warden did say that, and that he was quite serious about it, judging by the look of quiet determination in his eyes. Without meaning to, Zevran snorted, and burst into laughter.

"Sorry, sorry," he said between chuckles; unnecessary apologies, given that the Warden smiled back at him when he laughed, but no harm saying it. "Here I thought that you've given yourself so many challenges already, and now you wish to bind those two in matrimony? But then again, after all your accomplishments, maybe your definition of impossible has changed."

The Warden shrugged. "It's the most ideal solution, really. Anora's intelligence and charisma, paired with Alistair's compassion and earnestness. The problem is getting the two of them to work together in this, assuming they even agree to my suggestion." He grimaced. "Truthfully I'm not looking forward to negotiating this. Darkspawn are far easier to deal with than two very strong-willed and stubborn people."

" I wish you good luck then. Maker knows that Alistair has become far more...shall we say, determined, compared to what he was like many months ago." Zevran raised an eyebrow. "He's a lot more like you now, actually."

The Warden gave Zevran a suspicious, squint-eyed look, before he rolled his eyes and muttered, "I'm not sure if I should be flattered or alarmed by that comparison."

Zevran laughed, leaning up to press a kiss to the Warden's chin. "I mean that in a good way. I quite like this new, grounded Alistair, although not as much as I like you. The mabari is far more tolerable than the puppy."

Zevran's drawling statement was met with a grimace. "Did you really just compare me to Alistair, as a way to flirt with me? Ugh. No, please don't ever do that again. That's like talking about my parents and sex in the same breath. You've ruined the mood."

"Did I? My apologies," Zevran purred, and shifted, moving up so he was straddling the Warden's waist, and he could lean down to kiss the petulant pout off the Warden's lips. It did not take much–a playful nip, and a teasing lick–before he felt the Warden respond, mouth opening beneath his, and broad hands slowly stroking up his thighs to circle around his hips, thumbs tracing possessively over his skin. He treated the Warden to one of his lazy half smiles that always seemed to make the man melt as he drew back from the kiss, tugging at a swollen lower lip with his teeth as he did so, and felt a bolt of lustful heat arc through him as the Warden let out a needy groan. "Let me make it up to you, then," he breathed, and lowered his mouth to taste his Warden in more interesting places.

_~ to be continued ~_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and sweet, and moving the plot along.


	45. Chapter 44

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to SiaLater, as always.

 

* * *

_Of Whoresons and Nobles_

_Chapter 44_

* * *

Denerim burned.

The air was thick with smoke, and stank of ash and char and the sickly-sweet rot of darkspawn blood. He heard screams, the war cries of fighting and death throes of the dying, mixing with the din of clashing metal to create a cacophony fit to make his ears ring as battle waged all around him.

It was madness, but secretly Zevran loved it.

A little twisted, perhaps, but Zevran had embraced that bloodthirsty side of him long ago, even though he very rarely allowed himself to slip out of the leash of tamed assassin and into the mindset of the trained killer.

And it had served him well, so far, allowing him to survive wave upon wave of darkspawn as Ferelden, united under the banner of the Grey Wardens, met with the Archdemon's army at Denerim. He'd managed to fight his way into the now-secure city center, and had not even a scratch on him.

But such things had to end, eventually, and it seemed that Ferelden's army was about to  _force_  it to end, quickly. So far they had managed to hold their own, but they were on shaky ground. The enemy horde fought without caring about fatigue or death, and if this kept up, sooner or later they would eventually fall to the darkspawns' overwhelming numbers.

He looked to where the Warden and Alistair had removed themselves, a good distance away from everyone else, and appeared to be having a conversation that was too intense to be a mere discussion but far too quiet to be an argument.

He studied them, two men who had somehow managed to gain enough power to bring the people of Ferelden, with all its various factions, into fighting together as a united army. They formed an interesting contrast while standing together in their suits of armor, with his Warden resplendent in dark blue and silver, and Alistair a bright beacon of gold and royal purple.

_Royal in truth, now._

Zevran smiled to himself as he remembered how Alistair had reacted when the Warden had made him king. He'd been shocked, almost horrified, which was very much how Zevran had expected him to react. What Zevran had not expected was for Alistair to sigh and accept it as "necessary and inevitable," before he had smiled and semi-jokingly told the Warden to stick around just so he wouldn't make too many bad decisions. Zevran had seen the hard resolve in Alistair's eyes, and wondered when exactly during the past couple of years did Alistair change into someone who Zevran would actually call  _kingly_. If anyone had told the assassin two years ago that he would be allied with a figure as influential as the king of a nation, he would have laughed in their faces. Strange how fate had led him to this path.

The conversation appeared to take a less friendly turn. Zevran could see Alistair gesticulating far more visibly than before, and while he couldn't make out Alistair's words he could certainly  _hear_  Alistair's voice get more and more angry with each passing moment. And the Warden had grown still and silent, but Zevran thought he recognised the set of those shoulders, the tilt of that head.

Whatever Alistair said was only making the Warden become more quietly determined. If Alistair had been trying to change the Warden's mind about something, he was failing  _badly_.

Zevran raised his head to look at the towering silhouette of Fort Drakon in the distance.

The Grey Warden Riordan had said that they should take a very small party to Fort Drakon, where he intended to lure the Archdemon towards so it can be killed easily. When he had said that both Alistair and the Warden should be part of that group, Zevran had seen the Warden's lips tightening into a thin line, his eyes going flat. It was obvious that the Warden had no intention of following Riordan's plans. Not the entirety of it, anyway. And if that was what they were arguing about, Zevran suspected that not even the threat of the Maker's Wrath would dissuade the Warden from whatever decision he had made.

The Warden would never put Alistair on such a risky mission. Not when Alistair was to become King.

Zevran sensed the people around him stirring to attention, and looked up to see the Warden and Alistair walking towards them, their faces remarkably calm despite their heated discussion earlier. As if on cue, the Warden's inner circle, the companions who had stood by his side throughout the Blight, gathered together in a tight group before the two men.

Zevran expected the Warden to speak up, but surprisingly, it was Alistair who cleared his throat, drawing their attention to him.

"Some of you may have heard this already, but I shall repeat it for clarity's sake. The Warden Riordan will be in charge of luring the Archdemon to Fort Drakon. A small party, led by our illustrious leader here—" He slapped a not-so-gentle hand on the Warden's shoulder. "—will follow and meet Riordan at the top of the fort, in order to finish off the Archdemon and end this war. The rest of us will stay here with the army, and stop the bulk of the horde from invading further into Denerim, giving our comrades time to reach Fort Drakon quickly." Alistair raised an eyebrow. "If anyone has an objection to this very foolhardy plan, do speak up now."

Zevran looked around, but no one said anything. There was an air of clear determination amongst all of them, shining brightly in their eyes. They were ready.

"Very well, then. Warden," Alistair said, gesturing at their group. "Have you decided who shall go with you?"

"I have," the Warden said. His eyes drifted over their little gathering, as if he was gauging their mood, their preparedness, before he listed out the names of those he'd chosen. It was a very short list.

Zevran's name was not on it.

Zevran could sense their surprise, felt eyes stare at him and the Warden in shock. Leliana was standing right beside him, and he heard her make a little gasp, but when she looked at him for answers, he kept his face impassive and unsurprised.

Let her know, without saying words, that this was already planned, and he knew it would happen.

The Warden dismissed them, ordering them to make their last preparations before returning to battle, and Zevran quietly withdrew, moving away to somewhere a little less noisy.

Leliana followed him, as he expected her to do, and when he stopped to look at her, she reached out, clutching his arm, her expression pained. "Zevran, are you alright with this?"

Zevran shrugged, smiling. "Why shouldn't I be all right? Maker knows that my talents are needed here, where they can do the most damage. Experience has taught us that daggers are not very effective against a giant lizard that can fly and breathe fire, no? Your arrows are far more useful against that sort of foe."

"But—"

"It's fine, my dear Leliana," he said, more gently. "The Warden and I had discussed this at Redcliffe. If for whatever reason we had to separate during this battle, I am to go with Alistair, and keep the King of Ferelden alive for as long as my heart still beats in my chest."

Leliana studied his face, as if trying to see how he  _really_  felt, but if she expected him to be visibly upset she would be sorely disappointed.

Zevran had already made peace with this particular decision, long before they even marched towards Denerim.

Eventually she lowered her eyes to the ground, looking sad and resigned. "It just seems so wrong that you aren't fighting by his side."

"Not the most romantic, I know," he said lightly. "Ah, but such is war, and one must prioritise results over sentiment. You and I both know this all too well, no?"

Her lips twitched. "Yes, indeed." She raised her head, and met his gaze. "But that does not mean that you two cannot reunite after this. I swear to you, Zevran, that I will do my best to bring him back to you safe and alive, even if I have to sacrifice my own life to do it. I promise."

Zevran felt the urge to try and dissuade her, but he quashed it before he could find the words. He knew better to argue against Leliana when she looked like  _that_ , her eyes burning hot with the fierceness of faith and purpose. "I'll hold you to that." He grinned and patted the hand that was still holding onto his arm. "Don't mind me. I'm sure you have things to do right now, before you go off on this quest."

She bit her lip, but instead of letting go, she abruptly closed her arms around him, enveloping him in a hug. "May the Maker's Light guide you along your way," she said. "And know that I'm proud to call you a friend."

He blinked, a little stunned, before he laughed softly and hugged back, squeezing her briefly and tightly. "I can say the same to you, my dear."

Leliana stepped back, wiping at her eyes, but her smile was bright and brilliant. "That's a very bad habit of yours," she scolded. "You  _never_  use real words to say what you really want to say."

"It's bad luck to speak your wishes out loud, you know, or so the old Antivan saying goes," he replied. "Now, shoo, I'm quite sure you have your own preparations to take care of."

He watched as Leliana joined the group that had congregated around the Warden. It was clear that every one of them wanted to give the Warden some final words before he departed.

Especially since none of them were certain that the Warden would survive this incredibly dangerous quest.

He stayed just beyond earshot, waiting patiently until the last of them had stepped away, and the Warden was once again on his own. Only then did he slip to the Warden's side, nudging him with an elbow.

"Someone's popular," he murmured. "Quite the spectacle you made there, with all your loyal subjects surrounding you."

The Warden looked tired, but he gave Zevran a wan smile that lasted for a mere blink. "It's still odd, to be honest," he said. "I don't feel like I'd earned that loyalty."

Zevran smirked. "Now, now, don't think of yourself so harshly. You'd earned that adoration, you know. Every last one of us would fight by your side, as long as it'll keep you alive."

The smile on the Warden's face vanished at the pointed tone of Zevran's words. "Still angry at me, I see."

"Just a bit," Zevran said. "How is a man supposed to react when told to stay away, when the person he cares for the most is walking straight into danger?"

The Warden growled at him. "I'd already said—"

Zevran let out his own sigh, shaking his head. "It's fine. I gave my word, yes? I'll do as I promised. Even if I think you're being foolish about it."  _And I don't want to fight you,_  he thought.  _Not now. Not when it might be the last time we can speak to each other._

And indeed, he had given his word. Reluctantly and with a great deal of resentment, but during their last night at Redcliffe, just before the army marched, the Warden had made Zevran swear to protect Alistair. "It won't do to win this war against the darkspawn, only for our future King to fall," the Warden had said. "There's no point if Ferelden ends up descending into a civil war again, just because of a preventable death. Alistair is too important right now for Ferelden to lose him."

 _And you're not important?_  Zevran wanted to retort, but he had kept his mouth shut. He knew the question did not come from a logical point of view; it was a selfish wish, to want to protect the Warden at the cost of everything else.

And Zevran knew what was at stake here, even if it pained him to admit it. His Warden may be instrumental in gathering the conflicting forces of Ferelden as one united army, but in the grander scheme of things, a Grey Warden was far more easy to replace than a King.

Zevran glanced up at Fort Drakon again, knowing that time was running out, and hating it.

"So here we part ways," he said quietly. He glanced at the very small group of people waiting to depart on the Warden's orders—a painfully small group, would it be enough to keep the Warden safe? "You do not wish me to stand by you, in the end?"

The Warden followed his gaze, and huffed out a breath, acknowledging without words that he knew what Zevran was thinking. "I do not wish to put you in that kind of danger," he said, just as quiet.

The sheer hypocrisy of the Warden's comment made Zevran burst out laughing, in spite of himself. "Oh,  _now_  you worry about my health!" he exclaimed, before he sobered.

His eyes drifted over the Warden, his lord and lover, taking note of the handsome face that he'd come to adore. The sharp-angled planes that made him look harsh and foreboding and far older than he seemed, until he smiled one of his wolfish grins, betraying his true age. The piercing eyes that always seemed to be able to look past Zevran's masks and into the most vulnerable parts of him. The thick hair that Zevran had ran fingers through countless times. The thin lips that had kissed Zevran again and again, each time somehow as sweet and as addicting as the first kiss they'd shared, from what felt like ages ago.

 _Don't go_ , he wanted to say.  _Don't leave me alone._

_I love you too much to let you go now._

But he kept his words to himself.

_You never use real words to say what you really want to say._

He sighed, knowing Leliana was right. He was a coward, even now.

"In truth..." He licked his suddenly dry lips, and kept his gaze locked with the Warden's, making sure that even if he couldn't say it, the Warden could at least  _see_  it. "For the chance to be by your side, I would storm the Black City itself. Never doubt it."

The Warden tilted his head, studying Zevran for a long moment, and then he smiled, wry and at the same time, in some strange indefinable way,  _tender_.

The unexpected softness of that smile took Zevran's breath away, leaving him stunned, so he was unprepared when the Warden stepped close, a hand raising up to frame the side of Zevran's face, before the Warden leaned in and touched their lips together, as soft and light as a feather brushing against his skin.

Zevran heard a gasp, knew that it came from his own throat. But before he could respond, the Warden drew back, just far enough that their eyes could meet. The hand on his cheek cupped his face more fully, thumb running over where the dark lines of his tattoo were inked into his skin.

"Whatever happens," the Warden murmured, his eyes staring into Zevran's as if he was looking at Zevran's very soul, speaking to it. "I love you."

Zevran felt his heart flip over itself, even as his chest tightened with an indescribable ache. The Warden's eyes, gentle and  _understanding_ , made Zevran hate his own cowardice even more. "Cruel to the end," Zevran breathed.

The Warden's smile widened. "Some things don't need to be said out loud. Although it would have been nice to hear it from you." The Warden stepped back and away, hand dropping. "Take care of yourself, Zevran."

"The same to you," Zevran said.

The Warden nodded, turned. And walked away, calling out to the people he'd chosen to fight the Archdemon with, once more the warrior and leader.

Zevran watched as the soldiers that were with them cheered, shouting words of encouragement as the Warden and his party departed. It was only when Zevran could no longer see him did Zevran shake his head, gathering his wits, and went to Alistair's side.

Alistair watched him approach, waited until Zevran was within earshot before murmuring, "I guess the Warden told you to stay close to me, huh."

Zevran laughed. "You guessed right," he said with a grin. "And I shall do my best to stick to you. Like a stubborn rash."

Alistair didn't even blink at Zevran's deliberate vulgarity. He simply nodded. "I'm glad to have you fighting by my side, even if it was at the Warden's request," he said.

Alistair's voice was even, almost cheerful. But Zevran did not miss the flicker in Alistair's expression, something dark and pained flashing in his eyes as the Warden's title passed his lips.

_Some things don't need to be said out loud._

Zevran glanced back again at where he last saw the Warden, feeling the uneasiness in his chest turn into sharp-edged ice.

Because when the Warden said 'I love you', Zevran couldn't help but think that it had sounded more like 'Goodbye'.

_~ to be continued ~_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.


End file.
